


They Call it The Rising Sun

by Shampain



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Dark Magic, Drug Use, F/M, Goldgraves, Hoodoo, Horror, Horror Elements, Intoxication, Mentor/Protégé, Minor Character Death, New Orleans, Post-Canon, Sex Magic, Slow Burn, Undercover as a Couple, Voodoo, but also romantic mentor stuff too, fake kissing turning to real kissing ooh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 16:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 161,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9393203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shampain/pseuds/Shampain
Summary: Congratulations, you have been officially reinstated as an Auror in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It is my hope that you will take seriously this second chance that you have been given.Your first assignment will be to accompany Percival Graves to New Orleans under the guise of his mistress and, therefore, the former mistress of Gellert Grindelwald. To the underworld you are to appear to work counter to Graves, but you must obey him in all things related to the case. This is dangerous ground, Miss Goldstein, and I advise you to be careful.Keep him safe, and yourself as well.Seraphina Picquery,President of the Magical Congress of the United States of America





	1. counting lives

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】They Call it The Rising Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13434918) by [liangdeyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liangdeyu/pseuds/liangdeyu)



> There needs to be more of this pairing around, so I have to write it. Usually I write a big chunk of a story first and have a solid plot plan before I begin posting it, but I'm kind of chomping at the bit with this pairing and couldn't wait to start posting (also I'm putting my other stories on hold so I can work on this one, eep). I currently don't have a big idea as to where it goes, Ima just have some fun with it and hope you do too. I apologise for any mistakes, since my edits for this story are going to be quick.
> 
> The title is a lyric from Nina Simone's recording of _House of the Rising Sun_

Seraphina's office was much like the woman herself: stylish, ageless, official. When Percival had first met her, he had _known_ she was a woman who was going places. She was beautiful, but it was more than that; it was almost as if her beauty was an afterthought, and that hinted at an inner power. Percival knew well the minds of people, who were always so easily struck by appearances that it sometimes consumed their entire being. But even the most loutish of men had a hard time being distracted by Seraphina's looks when she walked into a room.

They had a small, secret joke between them, Seraphina and Percival. It started because Percival had been in so many duels and brawls that Seraphina swore he was blessed with nine lives, like a cat. One day, when they were younger – before her ascension to President – Percival had watched a group of witches and wizards working beneath Seraphina grow increasingly restless and nervous under a sound scolding. “They look like they're counting how many lives they have left,” Percival had remarked, dryly, as they adjourned to her office.

That look, the 'counting lives' look, grew more and more prominent in the people around Seraphina as the years progressed. But never, in all his life, could Percival imagine her saying what she did now, at 8 A.M. on a Monday morning, his first day back.

“How many lives, Perce?” she asked him. She was adding sugar and milk to her coffee.

“Excuse me?”

“Your face,” she said, taking a sip. There was the barest hint of a frown on her face. “You look like you're counting.”

He felt the blood rush to his face, in embarrassment or anger or annoyance, he couldn't tell. Maybe all three. “I'm not,” he said.

“You've no reason to be nervous,” she said. Thankfully it sounded more like she was berating him than comforting him; Percival never took well to the latter.

“All due respect, Madame President,” he said. “But I do.”

Now a scowl was working its way onto her face. Percival knew her well enough that he could usually afford to be distracted by her beauty, but not today. Today was different. It was the same blustery, terrible weather in New York; the same mindless chatter in the MACUSA entryway; the same coffee being brewed. Yet, everything was different because Percival Graves was different, and everyone in MACUSA knew it. Especially the President.

“Percival Graves,” she said, warningly. “You're going to stop acting like you have all the answers this instant. Now shut up and drink your coffee, and have a conversation with me.”

Now _he_ was scowling, but he picked up his coffee.

“Merlin,” she muttered. “You're impossible.”

He shrugged. It wasn't like it was a secret.

Finally, a smile cracked across her imperious face, but it was hesitant, almost sad. And now Percival felt terrible for giving her a hard time. While it was true that one of the issues on the table to be discussed was the breach of security, his reinstatement, his job, how everything had been thrown in the air... there were other things to be discussed. Privately, not between colleagues but between friends.

“It's not your fault, Sera,” Percival said, quietly.

She calmly swiped some of her lipstick from the gold rim of her coffee cup. “It's not yours, either,” she said.

“Well-”

She held up a hand, imperious. “No,” she stated. “If I don't get any blame, then you don't get any either. Fair's fair.”

“Nothing is fair in politics.”

“Everything is fair in friendship,” she said. “The darkest wizard of our time hoodwinked the both of us. Wallowing in self pity about it is the least productive we can be. I'm just glad he found it in him to feed your owl while he was at it.”

“Too bad I didn't have a cat,” Percival mused. “A cat would have known right away. But owls-”

“-are stupid,” Seraphina agreed, then sighed. “I've missed you. For months. If only I'd known.”

In terms of spotting a doppleganger of Percival Graves, Seraphina Picquery, President of MACUSA, would have been the one to do it. She knew him the best. From friends to lovers and back to friends, she knew his preferences, his habits, his sense of humour. But Percival didn't blame her for not knowing, because Grindelwald had been watching them for a long time, and knew this.

He'd picked a sunny day in June, several months earlier, some weeks after Percival's return from Europe. Percival and Seraphina had quarrelled, viciously, at 3 P.M., but despite the silencing charms on the office Seraphina's secretary had still heard, and by 5 P.M. most of MACUSA had known that the President and the Director of Magical Security were in a serious disagreement.

(It had been about involving themselves in no-Maj politics, not that it seemed important now).

The next day, when Percival had stopped initiating pleasant conversation with Seraphina, socialized less, and seemed more intent on work, the argument had been to blame. And Seraphina was left to believe that the cold shoulder was simply the result of Percival holding a grudge, rather than the less likely scenario of him being abducted and his identity assumed by Gellert Grindelwald.

And when someone like the President assumed there was nothing wrong with Percival Graves, the rest of MACUSA followed suit.

“I've missed you, too,” Percival said.

The tension, thankfully, started to dissipate. Seraphina began to scrape butter and jam onto her toast. Like him, she always breakfasted in office headquarters, whichever one she happened to be in. “Eat,” she commanded. “It's your favourite, from Gloria.”

Seraphina's sister Gloria was, of all things, a housewife. She was the mother of eight and the literal definition of a homemaker – she'd built her house from the ground up, and was a master of cooking, baking, sewing, knitting, and gardening. As well as making her own jam, she had also made Percival the unofficial uncle to all eight of her children.

“So, I'll speak plainly with you,” she continued. “Since you've passed all lie detection tests and have been formally discharged by your doctors, who have all signed forms stating that you are no longer dying and are _not_ insane, we can continue with your reinstatement. This, as you know, is what we are primarily going to discuss, and has you all sour.”

“Are you firing me?”

“Be quiet,” Seraphina said, pleasantly. “And let me talk. But no, I'm not firing you. In reality, anyway.”

 

.

 

When Tina got the memo, she hadn't expected it. When she'd tried to go back to work the morning after the entirety of New York had been Obliviated, Abernathy had told her in no uncertain terms she was to turn around, walk out, and wait for their call. He'd said it with a certain kind of relish she despised, but she'd had no choice but to obey.

There followed two weeks of sitting (metaphorically) in the dark. She was often visited by Aurors, many of them her former colleagues, to be interrogated. She told her story over and over, telling (most of) the truth. She didn't feel bad doing it, because she was relatively confident she knew which information was important to the investigation, and which she needed to conceal to protect Newt. Most of the time, though, she sat around at home, reading (after taking a walk the first time and realizing there was an auror tailing her, she had gotten annoyed and opted just to stay home for the time being). All of her news came courtesy of Queenie, and she only heard what anyone else serving coffee did: juicy bits of gossip side by side with whatever everyone else at MACUSA was publicly talking about.

First was the escape of Gellert Grindelwald when he had been handed over to British authorities (who were to prepare him for an International trial, seeing as how widely spread his crimes had been). He had been aided by fanatics, and several witches and wizards from both countries had been murdered. After that the trail had gone cold, but he was presumed to no longer be on North American soil.

Second was the discovery of Percival Graves, who had been in an enchanted sleep for the past four or five months inside of a Vanishing Cabinet. Reportedly the first thing he had asked for upon waking was a glass of whisky and a cigarette, but that was probably just office gossip. He was also reported to be raving mad, but that might have actually been true.

Third, Seraphina Picquery was almost always angry these days.

Fourth, Porpentina Goldstein was a spy/traitor/incompetent/actually a man/dead/absolutely fired. All this, too, she hoped was just office gossip, and nothing to do with what her superiors in MACUSA thought.

When the message came she was sitting around in a dressing gown, reading a pulp novel Queenie had picked up at a stand the other day. Tina was on the verge of getting so bored she was considering writing something of her own (because apparently this sort of dreck sold, despite the lack of talent required) when there was a scrabbling in one of her vents and a mouse memo crawled out.

She'd always been an early riser, so she'd been awake for hours, but since she had nowhere to go she hadn't bothered with her appearance. The note had her leaping out of her chair and rushing down the hall to the bathroom to tidy herself up. It had not been signed, but the stationary and wax seal of the presidential office was unmistakable.

Looking in the mirror, she noticed she still had an imprint of lipstick on her forehead from when Queenie had kissed her goodbye before heading to work that morning. Scrubbing it off, she splashed water on her face and proceeded to brush her hair. She'd never been like Queenie, who took full advantage of the times and dolled herself up – she would never admit it aloud, but Tina was too embarrassed to try putting on makeup, afraid people would notice her attempt to look as pretty as her sister, something which would fail. Queenie had always been the prettier of the two, and Tina comforted herself in pretending it was only makeup that set them apart.

When she was presentable she went back to the sitting room, sat down on the couch, and waited. And worried.

 

_Goldstein,_

_Prepare yourself and await further instruction._

 

.

 

Abernathy had a real thing for Queenie, and she knew it. She was used to men like him, and something stern and cold had grown in Queenie because of it. Her whole life, growing up, Queenie had been assaulted by the thoughts of men. And when she was thirteen and her legs were starting to get elegant instead of lanky and some of the baby fat was starting to drop from her face, men started opening their mouths and saying their thoughts out loud.

It made dating almost impossible, which she hated, because if there was one thing she loved about this brave new world of women cutting their hair, of lipstick, of dancing like mad little gremlins and letting their already short skirts fly up, it was a woman's prerogative to see as many men as she liked. And Queenie couldn't find it in herself to indulge. A man's thoughts were like a window display in a department store, and really she just couldn't find anything worth buying when she looked in, most days.

Jacob had been different, though. After the first few minutes of being struck by her looks, it had dissolved into... wonder. He looked at her and thought things like _amazing_ and _wonderful_ and _voice like a bird_ and when she went further she found a sweet soul, a tireless worker, a man who had seen rough things but was anything but. Someone who got the short end of the stick but kept on dreaming and believing. Someone like Queenie.

After losing Jacob, she found her patience for men like Abernathy was thinner than usual. And it wasn't just his thoughts about her, it was his thoughts about her _sister_ . He always compared them, like the Goldstein sisters were livestock at an auction, and the unkind thoughts he had towards Tina – never mind the words he _said_ to Tina, which Tina would tell Queenie about – meant that the man would never get so much as a kiss blown his way from Queenie.

But there he was, up in her face, as usual, as she made her coffee rounds. He was a pleasant looking man, but uncomfortable in his skin: he overcompensated by preening too much. He had a faint flowery smell – as was custom for many dapper men, he dabbed a bit of perfume on, but Queenie didn't like it. When it came to perfume she always had a feeling women used it to reveal themselves, and men used it to hide.

(Jacob had smelt a bit like shaving cream and the oil used to comb his hair back, but mostly just like his musk, like a real man. No pretensions. And then, at his last, he had smelt like the rain.)

“Hey Queenie,” he said. “I hope they call your sister back in soon. The paper is just pilin' up.”

Queenie paused to talk, because, well, this was about Tina. “Oh, yeah?” she said, hugging the empty coffee tray to her chest. “Pretty lonely in that office, huh?”

“Nobody wants to work there, that's for sure,” he snorted. “I guess that's why sticking her in there was a punishment. Nothing much she can wreck down there with wand permits.”

Queenie gave him a smile which was entirely false. “Think she'll come back soon?”

“Yeah, I hope so.”

She smiled and gave a pleased little shrug. “Well, I better go,” she said, starting to trot off, but Abernathy did that _thing_ men did where he sidestepped, trying to get ahead and around her, not blocking her way but going just within her personal space that she'd have to dart aside to avoid him.

“Hey, so I was thinkin',” he said. “Since things have calmed down a little-”

“Oh, gee, Mr. Abernathy, you got a little somethin' on your face,” Queenie interrupted, reaching out to swipe her thumb across his chin, wiping away a nonexistent spot. A tiny amount of physical contact always startled him enough so she could get away. “There you go. I better head up to the next floor, they'll be wanting their coffees.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Abernathy said, hastily. He walked with her to the elevator, but thankfully he seemed like he had lost his momentum.

It was easier to shake him off after that. She eventually ended back at her desk, typing up missives. Her work wasn't terribly hard; mostly she sent and forwarded memos, or made coffee. Sometime around lunch there was an explosive titter to her left and she glanced over where some of her coworkers were gathering, all women, all wearing expressions of intermingled horror and delight.

In the centre of it all was Ruth Torres – 'Ruthless', they called her, because no one was safe from her gossip. Queenie got to her feet. “What's goin' on?” she asked, curiously. Ruth always had the juiciest gossip.

Ruth grinned, looking victorious even though her hair was dripping wet, making a mess of her curls. “Didn't you hear?” she asked. She asked that _every_ time she was about to spill something. “The President just gave Mr Graves the boot. He stormed on out just now – literally. Rain all over the atrium.”

“He wasn't fired,” a blonde witch named Kathy protested. “He's just on leave. I mean, can you imagine what he went through? I bet he's not emotionally stable.”

“If you're so worried about his emotions, go chase after him, then,” Ruth said, snidely. “You might get hit by a bolt of lightning, though.”

“Ruth, don't be mean,” Queenie laughed.

“Serves him right,” Petunia, the sort of girl who was perpetually seated on a high horse, said. “He let Grindelwald walk right in here. He put all of us in danger.”

“You're all just mad because you realized you've been flirting with Gellert Grindelwald for who knows how long,” Ruth said. Queenie had to snort at that, because despite all the drivel Ruth would spread, _that_ hit the nail right on the head. Her mind reading wasn't confined only to the fancies of men, after all.

She floated back to her desk, surprised to find three envelopes that hadn't been sitting there a minute ago. They were all blank – or at least she thought so, but when she picked them up, her name slowly appeared in gentle cursive on one of them.

She turned it over, her eyes widening when she recognized the green wax seal. She tore through it and pulled out the note.

 

_Ms. Queenie Goldstein,_

_You are to go to your sister immediately and await further instruction._

 

_._

 

She had not expected Queenie to burst in, hours before she was due to leave the office. Nor was she expecting Queenie to be clutching two envelopes, the _further instruction_ Tina had been advised would arrive.

Now Tina was sitting on her sofa, staring at the pile of ashes that had once been the letter (it had burnt up as soon as she'd read it), while Queenie bustled about, tearing through her wardrobe.

“Come on, Teenie, we need to see what fits!” her sister was saying.

“This is crazy,” Tina said.

Queenie glanced out of her bedroom, grinning. “This is _great_!” she exclaimed. “Tina, you're on a case, a really big case! Oh, I wish I could go with you!”

“You'd probably do a better job,” Tina muttered, but Queenie just laughed.

“C'mere,” she said. “You know I've always wanted to dress you up.”

Queenie had gotten a letter, too, which had also burnt up upon reading it. Apparently it hadn't been very long, containing only one clear direction: _help Porpentina pack._

Tina dragged herself off of the couch and slouched towards her sister. She was a little off-put that Queenie wasn't worried about her safety, but the first time she thought that her sister had pointed out that she was going to be accompanied by the best Auror in America. “Nothing will fit,” Tina half-claimed and half-complained. “I don't know why-”

“Hogwash, we're the same size. Come on!” And her sister grinned, her eyes alight with joy and a tiny spark of mischief. “We'll need to do your hair, too!”

 _Kill me_ , Tina thought.

“Never!” Queenie shouted.

 

_Porpentina Goldstein, for your eyes only:_

 

_Congratulations, you have been officially reinstated as an Auror in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It is my hope that you will take seriously this second chance that you have been given._

_It has come to our attention that while Grindelwald's network in New York City has been stifled, his support in other cities continues to grow with his escape. This must be dealt with: Gellert Grindelwald is a threat to national security._

_Your first assignment will be to accompany Percival Graves to New Orleans under the guise of his mistress and, therefore, the former mistress of Gellert Grindelwald. To the underworld you are to appear to work counter to Graves, but you must obey him in all things related to the case. This is dangerous ground, Miss Goldstein, and I advise you to be careful._

_Last of all, you are to monitor Graves and report back to me any inconsistencies. We have yet to fully appreciate the skill and devilry of our adversary, and while I trust Graves with my life, Grindelwald is another matter entirely. Remember, you are not to speak of this to Graves._

_Keep him safe, Miss Goldstein, and yourself as well._

 

_Seraphina Picquery,_

_President of the Magical Congress of the United States of America  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Tina reading a pulp novel was an unconscious nod to 'Dime A Dozen' by Inktrap, go read it, it's hella cute.
> 
> Disclaimers before we set out on this romp:  
> There will be mentions of voodoo and hoodoo (especially hoodoo) in this story. Please bear in mind that I do, in fact, recognize voodoo as a very real religion, especially in regards to voodoo as it is practiced within New Orleans. I have done my research and am well aware it's not all about sticking pins in dolls and hexing people. However, for the sake of the story I am going to have to draw that line between our world and Harry Potter, in the same way that the books borrow from treelore and mythological creatures and all that fun stuff which to this day is still practiced. So please, take it all with a grain of salt. 
> 
> Other things in this story: possibly some historical inaccuracies in regards to New Orleans because my knowledge sort of fizzles out at around 1918, sorry. Also lots of Oc's, sex, and violence. Just some crazy shit, guys. Hope you like where it goes.


	2. debriefing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tina blushes. A lot.

The last time Percival had been on his own, it had been in Europe, where he had caught Grindelwald's attention. He would have to be more careful, now, because this time around he had a partner – and he would not allow her to suffer from his mistakes.

Tina had been an Auror before her demotion. She was a hard worker, with a wonderful memory and a good hand at defensive spells. In those respects there had never been any issues, but Percival had known straight away that Tina's climb through MACUSA would be slow if something didn't change – which was a damn shame, because these days they needed as many capable witches and wizards as they could get.

Percival didn't know if it was the fact that Goldstein didn't trust her instincts, or didn't have any at all, but he hoped it was the former. The unknown threw her off guard, and she became flustered very easily when questioned. In terms of spellcraft, the law, and talent, she had it in spades; but having a coworker question her methods made her freeze up and babble.

He'd worked with her seldom; most of his time was with his Senior and Chief Aurors, who reported to him constantly and whom he aided in their cases. Still, he knew her around the office, and had been considering finding a mentor for her. They needed more women in high-ranking positions in the department.

This, though, was completely out of the ordinary, but he understood why Seraphina was doing it. They both knew what would happen the minute Graves took the reins again: rumour, suspicion, panic, drama. Throughout his recovery he had been questioned backwards, forwards, and all over to see if he had been working with Grindelwald, and had undergone a multitude of tests to see if Grindelwald was still using him as a plant for inside of MACUSA. Seraphina had overseen all of it personally, and she knew that Graves needed to get back to work, to not only fix what had been caused but to put his immeasurable talent to use.

But what if Graves went back to work, but not _at work_? And Tina, after all she had done, deserved a second chance, and her loyalties could be counted on. But putting her back in the office could be just as damaging as Graves' return.

So now this was happening. Graves couldn't find it in him to be angry with Seraphina, though he'd definitely argued at first. It was incredibly clever, and it wasn't like she was giving him grunt work; this was important, chillingly so once she'd shown him the reports. It would remain to be seen whether Goldstein would be a help or a hindrance.

Now that night had fallen, he could start. Standing outside the apartment building, just beyond the light of the streetlamp, Percival stooped down and plucked up a pebble from the gutter, testing its weight for a moment before pulling his arm back and tossing it. A little brush of wandless magic had it tapping sharply against the Goldstein sisters' window.

He saw the flash of a pale face looking down at him, before it disappeared just as quickly. He waited.

Five minutes later, the front door opened and both sisters appeared on the stoop. He frowned slightly at seeing the flash of blonde hair – surely their sisterly goodbyes could have happened inside? - but Queenie flit lightly down the steps and right up to him, closer than most people ever dared. In her heels she was a little taller than he was.

“Hey, Mr Graves,” she greeted, while behind her Tina struggled down the steps with her suitcase. “You'll take good care of my sister, won't you?”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Of course.”

There was something brittle about her smile. “You swear it?”

“Everything in my power.”

“Good.” She brushed imaginary dust from the shoulders of his jacket, and added, gently, lightly enough for only him to hear, “Because if you don't, I'll deal with you. She's all I got left in this damn world.”

And just like that, she turned in a flutter of skirts and embraced Tina. “I'll see you soon, honey,” she said, before brushing past and hurrying back up the steps, not looking back.

Tina turned to him. She was hesitant, unsure; he would tolerate that for now, but he would speak to her soon about what needed to change, what she had to learn to survive as more than a grunt worker in this business.

“Come on,” he said, picking up her suitcase for her. “We've got a cab to catch.”

 

Cabs with magical drivers were the best way to travel between cities, as the American wizarding world had yet to properly install themselves in all of the rail lines, and Percival preferred to avoid no-Maj customs. He also detested sea voyages, so that was completely off the table.

“Ever been in a Night cab before?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

She gave him a surprised look. “No. Have you?”

“Yes.”

She fell silent, likely processing that. Night cabs were not a respectable form of transport. That wasn't to say they were _only_ used by customers of a seedy disposition, but that's who were usually attracted to them, owing to the dark-as-night interiors.

Night cabs came in two classes: cheap, or expensive. The cheap ones involved sitting in complete and absolute darkness, often with strangers – as a result, you could ride with a large amount of people, thus lowering the fare, but you could be sitting next to a famous murderer the whole time without knowing it. Driver's picked up whoever flagged them, and never looked too closely. The expensive cabs were privately hired, with the interiors lit, but the driver still had no idea who you were due to the amount of charms placed to protect the interior of the cab.

As a result, Percival had been in his fair share of Night cabs, both as a passenger and an investigator. Apparating could leave a trace, and those highly skilled in sensing magical signatures could pick up on it, while Night cabs left nothing but the driver's signature. They were also three times faster than any no-Maj vehicle. Working his way through the underworld, they were sometimes a necessity for his own safety.

As an investigator, though, he had attended not one, but two murder scenes in privately hired Night cabs. He'd caught both perpetrators, so he knew that the system was not fool proof. And that was something he was counting on: he was going to arrive in New Orleans with Tina in tow, and the first people to find out would be those living in the Underbelly. Those were the ones he wanted to attract.

“I trust you've been debriefed?” he asked. She nodded. “Good. We'll go over details in the cab. For now, keep your head down.”

 

.

 

Tina followed Graves through the alleys and side streets, keeping up with his quick step. As always he moved with a smooth grace, so much so that even when he was quick he stilled seemed to be slow and stately. She envied him his confidence, his practical attitude. She had never seen him flustered.

He was not a cold man, but he could be distant. He was intent on his Senior Aurors, his mind always appeared to be working, and no matter what the world threw at him he was never overcome.

It was still almost impossible to believe she was going with him. She, Tina Goldstein, who couldn't put lipstick on straight, or eat a hot dog without getting mustard on her lip, or really act anything close to a lady, was accompanying a man the office secretarial pool had voted MACUSA'S leading bachelor for three years running. And she had to pretend to be his _mistress_.

That should be alarming her in so many ways, yet just then her largest concern was not making a fool of herself in front of the Director of Magical Security. Oh, sure, Queenie told her that everyone at MACUSA had been informed he'd been put on leave for an indeterminate time, but that was obviously a cover. This was a directive handed down from the President herself, and it could make or break Tina's career.

At the same time, she was overflowing with barely contained glee.

As he directed she kept her head down, her hat pushed down securely over her head. She wasn't sure where they were going, but if they were taking a Night cab it would be somewhere quiet, probably the entrance to another alley. From what she knew, Night cabs stopped at certain curbsides at certain times of night, but she wasn't sure which one they'd be taking. Probably a private one, if Graves was going to go over the details of their assignment.

She was so focused on hopping over a puddle that was half-ice she almost ran right into him; she stopped just as the edge of his coat came into view. “Sir?” she asked, not looking up.

“One moment,” he said.

She heard the purr of an engine, much quieter than any no-Maj contraption, and looked up to see Graves opening the door for her. It looked like any other black Ford in the city, but just beyond the door the interior was unseen. The windows, too, were shrouded in darkness; she couldn't see the front where the driver was presumably waiting. “After you,” he invited.

She stepped up and in, finding an incredibly roomy area beyond, none of it plunged in darkness. There were two bench seats facing each other, plush with leather, and looked more like a sitting room than a car. The windows were all black, letting nothing in and nothing out.

Graves climbed in, swinging the door shut. The driver seemed to take that as their signal and the car jerked forward; surprised, Tina lurched forward from the motion, and collided with Graves, knocking them both over to the floor of the cab.

“I guess I should have warned you that would happen,” Graves said, dryly, while Tina scrambled off of him, blushing furiously.

He felt a lot more muscular than he looked.

“Sorry, sir,” she said. Merlin, this was a terrible first impression she was giving him and they hadn't even started their case yet.

Graves settled down on the seat across from her, swiping a hand quickly over his head to fix his hair. For one moment she had a flashback to Newt, who bucked the fashion of the day and let his hair fall in his face. Always hiding from people, afraid of what they might see. She supposed she did that, too.

“You should get into the habit of saying 'Percival',” he said.

Tina settle down in her seat, praying the flush in her cheeks would dissipate soon. It was already embarrassing enough that _the president_ had actually asked _Queenie_ to help Tina pack, knowing full well Tina probably didn't have the wardrobe to pull off the type of women she was supposed to be acting as.

Queenie had done even better than that, though. She had practically gotten Tina into a headlock in order to force her into the bathtub along with a razor. “It's all gotta go, Teeny!” Queenie had insisted. “You're wearing sleeveless dresses, now!”

After that, it was the hair on her head. Queenie, who had taken care of her own locks for years, had placed a semi-permanent spell on Tina's hair, giving her an envious head of curly hair which brought her otherwise lanky bob to life. She'd also bewitched it to a stunning shade of red. It had been that or the severe Louise Brooks cut, which even Tina – who had embraced cutting off her hair as soon as it became the modern thing to do – felt was far too short.

After pulling on a flimsy navy dress of her sister's, it was then time for Tina's makeup lesson. All that had brought her up to the moment when Graves had retrieved her.

As ridiculous as she felt at that moment, she still hoped and trusted in Queenie's good taste. Surely she at least _looked_ the part for now.

“So,” he continued. “I believe you received your orders from the President, yes?”

“I have, sir. Percival.”

“Good.” He shrugged off his overcoat. It was a luxurious item, soft and black but lined with spotless white. He turned it aside, revealing an inner pocket, and she watched as a good section of his forearm disappeared into it. _Undetectable extension charm_ , she noted. “I have your cover here. You will be assuming the identity of Mariana Moon.”

“Who's that?”

“She used to be a small-time dancer in Chicago, but she got on the wrong side of one of the bootleggers there,” Graves said, pulling several folders out of his coat. He sounded very unconcerned about the fate of poor Mariana Moon, but that was just the way things were; get killed by a no-Maj and there wasn't much MACUSA could do about it, so that was probably what happened. There was more than one reason why it was illegal to get involved with no-Maj's. “Your story is you laid low, and came to New York where you ended up meeting Grindelwald. Most of his fanatics we were able to lock up during the escape, so no one in New Orleans should be able to refute your story. I have the files of the major cronies here, you study them to get to know their habits in case anyone asks.”

She held out her hands for the files, including the one holding all the details of Mariana Moon. Still, she was distracted, mostly because they were treading around the awkward part where Tina had to play, well, a floozy (not that she had anything against them).

“Got it,” she said, opening the first folder and scanning through it. The paper was worn, dog-eared at the edges; most of these witches and wizards had previous records with MACUSA before throwing their lot in with Grindelwald. “What's our first move?”

“We should be in New Orleans by morning,” he said. “So the first move will be for us to be seen arriving. Or me, rather. No one's seen me since June, so I'm going to play it angry and a bit shell-shocked.”

“I heard you caused a bit of a scene in the atrium today,” Tina remarked idly. “All thunder and lightning.”

“Can't have one without the other,” Graves said. There was just the _barest_ hint of a smirk on his mouth, but Tina liked it. You didn't share an expression like that with someone you disliked. “In any case, that will help sell the idea you have me wrapped around your little finger.”

“Are you supposed to be a supporter of Grindelwald, too?”

“No,” Graves said, dismissively. “Too easy and hard to believe. I am, however, going to be having my MACUSA loyalties tested, which will give you influence when it comes to searching out someone to help you turn me. You will let everyone know that coming to New Orleans was _your_ idea, and I'm just doing whatever makes you happy.”

Tina was pleased that she was maintaining her composure through this. The last time she'd gone out with a man had been years, before becoming an Auror had distracted her. And Jeremy from Broom Transport certainly didn't compare to Percival Graves. “Alright,” she said. “I assume we have a list of speakeasies?”

“We do. We've acquired you some rooms near one of them, while I'm staying a bit closer to the French Quarter and the MACUSA offices there. You'll be in no-Maj hospitality, so it looks like I'm trying to keep you hidden. The right people will find you, though.”

Of course. Mistresses never stayed with their paramours; when they were decently looked after, they were supported enough to live on their own. But a wizard keeping his mistress in a no-Maj hotel, where she wouldn't bump into anyone he knew, suggested a bit more indecency in that.

Tina selected the file holding her identity and opened it, eyes skimming all the information known about Mariana Moon. There wasn't much. Her Ilvermorny record, her recorded addresses, family, that sort of thing. But she was more or less unremarkable. Except for her ability to do a bit of dancing with feathers, apparently. “What was that, sir?” she asked, tearing her gaze away from the page, realizing that Graves was speaking again.

“I said,” he began, “now we need to talk about things of a more delicate matter.”

 _Ah, Hell_ , she thought. “Of course,” she said.

“Now, I know your files, and your abilities,” he said. “In terms of law enforcement. Now, what else can you tell me, Tina?”

She worried a bit at her bottom lip with her teeth, trying not to feel too shy. She knew what he was asking: how fit are you for this assignment? “Well,” she said. “I'm no stranger to the underworld. I have quite a few contacts and know how to make crims tick. In terms of knowing my way around a speakeasy, I'm fine. I can dance, I can drink with the best of them. I'm not used to being _decorative_ , though, sir.”

To her surprise, he actually smiled at that. “There's no shame in it,” he said. “You struck me as a career girl, the moment I saw you. But selling yourself as my lover is important. How do you plan on playing it?”

“What, me? I mean,” she amended, “you're in charge.”

“I am,” he agreed. “But you know better the view other people have of me. We need to sell this idea that I've lost my footing and you're going in for the kill, and I want to know your ideas.”

The way he stated it, so calmly, made her relax, helped her to think about it seriously. “Well,” she said, “Percival. You're well-liked by men and women, but you tend to keep people at an arm's length. I've noticed you never socialize more than a few hours with your coworkers, like you're friendly but wary of closing distance. And for the past few years, among criminals, there's also been... rumours...” she hesitated, but only for a moment, “about you and the President.”

“Go on.”

“So if we decided to take advantage of that, I think the President publicly putting you on leave would suggest a bit of a scorned lover mentality,” Tina reasoned. “People don't really get into your personal space, so if I play it close to you, and lovingly at that... that's good ammunition for a man who's been knocked down a peg. Someone clever enough to stroke your ego but also tap in to your vulnerabilities. You've been shamed and embarrassed in equal terms by both Grindelwald and MACUSA, so a woman who can make you feel powerful again would be a big draw-”

She stopped suddenly, realizing the tangent she had gone on, and she _knew_ her face was turning bright red. “I'm so sorry, sir,” she blurted out. “I didn't mean... that.”

He gave her a somewhat tense smile – she knew her words had hit a mark, but he wasn't blaming her for them, at least. “All fair assumptions,” he said. “So you propose to be this woman?”

“In a fashion,” Tina said, willing herself to stop blushing again. For Merlin's sake, this was for work, and she had the calmest, most professional man in the world to play herself against. “With your permission.”

Graves blinked at her, and rubbed his hand over his chin – thoughtfully, she thought. “Goldstein, are you asking for my _consent_ to touch me?” he asked, his voice containing the barest hint of a laugh.

Now the blush really was there, in full force. “Well,” she mumbled. “... Yeah.”

“That's incredibly polite of you. But I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Her gaze shot up. “Sir?”

“Your consent. I'm a gentleman.”

She stared. “Well, of course you have that. I don't understand.”

“That's why I was asking you what your thoughts were. To see how prim you'd play it – that would tell me if perhaps you were letting any personal inhibitions get in the way of your work,” he explained. “And I didn't want to direct you straight away if I didn't have to. But I agree. If you're comfortable playing it that close, then we will certainly do just that, and I'll play the part if you consent to it. And you have my permission to put your hands wherever you please – oh, do stop looking at me like that, Goldstein,” he said, with a bit of a snort. “I'm not that insufferable.”

“No! Sorry, I mean, I'm just a little embarrassed,” Tina confessed, figuring the truth would be the best now that she had been called out. “That's all. I'm more used to talking about counter-spells and blood spatters with my coworkers. Not who can touch where.”

He leaned back in his seat, considering her. The sudden silence made her feel uneasy, but luckily he didn't leave her waiting for long – any second more and she was prepared to open her mouth and start babbling again. “Are you uncomfortable around me?” he asked. “You must be. We haven't interacted much.”

She shook her head. “Not uncomfortable,” she said. “Just... I'm not used to you. It'll pass.”

“If you expect me to play the besotted fool to your seductress, you'll have to get used to me, Tina.”

“I agree.” She bowed her head for a moment, in thought, looking down at the files in her lap but not reading a single word. “Perhaps we should sit together for the rest of the ride,” she suggested.

“How do you mean?”

“So we're used to each other's presence,” she explained. “I would find it very helpful.”

He was silent again, but this time she met his gaze, levelly. She wasn't going to fumble about on her own in this case, not with someone as highly trained as Graves watching her. A mistake in this business could mean life or death, so she was prepared to ask for help when she needed it. But she would _not_ let him think she was weak, or unprepared to do what needed to be done to succeed.

Finally, he nodded. “Do you mind coming over here, then?” he asked, surprising her. “I get a bit of motion sickness if I face the opposite direction of where I'm moving.”

A grin crept onto her face. “Really?”

He gave her a smile. “Really.”

Making sure she had all the folders secure, not wanting to drop them on the floor, she carefully got to her feet and, with minimum wobbling, sat down next to him. Closer than she'd meant to, at first, but that was alright. He raised his arm, almost instinctively, she thought, and then before she knew it she was tucked in against his side, in that position she had seen so many couples in, fit together like they were carved from the same tree.

It was also the closest she'd been to anyone in years, not counting hugs and cuddles from her sister. She took a deep breath to relax – and was surprised to find Graves doing the same thing. “You can put that there,” she murmured, taking his hand and letting him wrap his arm around her shoulders. Even through her coat he was warm. She had to admit, there had been times where she had day dreamed at her desk about doing this sort of thing with a man like him. “There.”

“Better, Tina?”

“Soon, I think,” she said. Her heart was beating a little bit fast, and she felt lightheaded, but that would pass. _Don't disappoint him_ , she thought. She was there to be his security and his backup, and to – well, keep an eye on him, according to Picquery. Graves was a man who didn't suffer fools, and she was dead-set against being one. “And call me Mariana, Percival.”

He made a noise of agreement but said nothing more. Tina tried to get comfortable cuddled up as she was with _her boss and partner_ , and started going through the files one by one.

 _Every single unmarried woman in MACUSA is going to kill me if they find out about this_ , she realized. Oh well.


	3. the dame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Settling in and setting the scene.

At first she had thought, New Orleans, sure; just another place for the job. But now that she was there, Tina had realized how vastly she had ignored this part of the case.

She had never been this far south before; she'd grown up, quite happily, in New York State, and for some reason she had thought that New Orleans would be like any other city, because surely nothing could beat the teeming metropolis of her home. But she had been so, so wrong.

First, New Orleans was hot, and humid. She was now grateful for her new persona wearing sleeveless dresses, even if it did mean she was going to have to keep on top of clearing up the hair on her underarms.

Secondly, the energy was different. It was vibrant and wild and even in the late morning as she stepped out from the cab and onto the street – handed down elegantly by Graves – there was a fizzle of something different in the air.

She had fallen asleep at some point in the cab, curled up at Percival's side. But before that had happened, she had asked question after question, especially once she'd read the file detailing Flght Street, the centre of wizarding life in New Orleans. Graves had been to the city many times during his career, and he knew it well.

“It's not like New York; it's not like anywhere else,” he had counselled. “Despite our work keeping wizards and witches separate from the No-Majs, remember that our job first and foremost has always been to protect our people from dark magic.

“New Orleans is different; what we view as dark and normally used for wicked intentions, is often wielded for good there. It is harder for MACUSA to police anything in the city. Blood magic, midnight ceremonies – they're more common in New Orleans and all throughout the South than you can even imagine, Goldstein. Keep that in mind. Don't let yourself be distracted.”

“And Flight Street?” she'd asked.

“It's the backbone of our world in that city. So long as you stay on the main street, everything's fine. Wander off, though, and that's a different story entirely.”

“So I ought to wander, then.”

“As far as you can, Goldstein. But not yet.”

For now she would keep to No-Majs, to create the idea she was being hidden away, at least for the moment. But the right (or rather, wrong) people would find out about her soon enough; people interested in the comings and goings of Percival Graves.

She blinked in the sunlight, then tilted her head so that her cloche helped shield her eyes better. “I'll see you tonight,” Graves murmured into her ear, and she nodded. Until then, she knew, she would be alone, just as they had planned. For now, he had to pay his respects to the local wizarding authority.

He acted like he hadn't spent the entire night sitting upright with a sleepy witch curling against him; not a blink, not a flutter of annoyance or stiffness, while Tina felt her neck crying out in protest. When she'd woken up with a start and then asked how she looked, he'd answered with “like you spent the entire night in the backseat of a cab,” which had made her blush even in the face of his smirk.

She guessed she wasn't surprised that Percival Graves had a sense of humour, if she thought about it long enough.

Tina appraised the place before her. If there was one thing everyone in the world shared, regardless of magical ability, it was that money seemed to speak louder than anything else in most corners. The hotel before her was opulent and grand, gleaming in the late morning sun. It was the sort of place where talk of the bill would be kept at a minimum, sent out discreetly with minimum fuss; these days mistresses for businessmen were just another expense, like homes and wives. For this case, Tina would pay for absolutely nothing out of her own pocket, which was just as well – it wasn't like she and Queenie had the greatest of pay grades. Yet another reason why she needed to do well, now. Promotion would mean better money and a better home for herself and her sister. Just thinking about the bills Percival Graves could sign off on made her dizzy with jealousy. She doubted he would even notice whether MACUSA would reimburse him later or not.

“Mademoiselle Moon,” the doorman greeted, stepping forward and bowing over her hand. “How wonderful of you to arrive.”

The moment Tina's heel had touched the ground, she knew the metaphorical clock had started, the cameras rolling. She was now Mariana Moon, and she would _not_ mess it up.

“Oh, how charming,” she laughed. “I don't know a bit of French, though, sir, I'm so _terribly_ sorry. I promise to do my best!”

“Not at all, not at all. Shall we take your bags?”

Graves took her hand, and before she knew it he was brushing his lips across her knuckles. He was to make his leave as quickly as he could; showing his face to prove there was a man to pay the hotel bill, but refusing to linger for propriety's sake. “I've business to attend, Ana,” he said. “I'll see you for dinner.”

Her own suggestion to him about the type of woman she was to play flashed through her mind, and before she could even think about it she was pulling her hand away and instead grasping at his lapel, pulling him close. She let her eyelids drop just slightly, hooding her gaze with lashes, and pushed her mouth against his. 

Kissing Percival Graves was just like kissing any other man, truth be told, and was not as shocking or awkward as she'd feared. In fact, it was better than any kiss she'd had in ages, since she had given herself permission to take the lead with it. It was firm and intense but only lasted for a moment, as she'd planned; a kiss like that was  more like a hook than a symbol of love, a tool used by  hunters to catch their prey.

“Don't leave me waiting, darling,” she said, sweet but with a purr of warning underneath, surprising even herself. She slipped out of his grasp and refused to look behind her as she stepped towards the doors, afraid that if she even glanced at his face, let alone met his gaze, her cover would crumble and fall to the ground. 

She saw a bit of a smirk on the doorman's face, which he quickly turned into studious disinterest, so she took that as a good sign. She heard, instead of saw, Graves get back into the cab – appearing in daylight to be just like any other car – and make his leave. She was on her own, now.

Tina had little idea about this hotel, but she could tell just from looking she was somewhere noteworthy. Really, No-Majs could do such wonderful things when given the chance, and this building was no exception. She allowed herself to gawk a bit at the architecture, before the doorman interrupted her thoughts.

“Will you be wanting to dine or to rest, mademoiselle?”

“I'd like a pot of tea and some luncheon sent up,” she said, with a careful wriggle of her shoulders, stretching her neck. Oh, how her back was aching.

It proved to be less than a small hindrance, however, once she saw her suite. Her own apartment back home with Queenie had been one long room, with their sleeping area cut off only by sliding doors. This place, however, had its own sitting area, with a bedroom opening up to the side. The rooms were not gloriously large but they were still bigger than her apartment, and she tried not to balk at the doorway which revealed her very own attached bathroom.

Merlin. And here she'd thought all the cases she'd do in her career would involve bribing criminals and sleeping in cheap motels.

The bellboy arranged her single suitcase as artfully as he could, and recommended the chef's jambalaya for lunch. Then, just like that, she was alone.

She was exhausted from having spent the entire night, when not sleeping in her seat, reading until her eyes watered. She stretched her arms out until she felt her shoulders pop, and yawned. She would wait until she had her food and tea, then she would have a few hours of sleep to prep her for the evening to come.

She opened her suitcase and retrieved the folders, as well as a book Percival had given her. It was a small diary, with a peacock blue leather cover and gold edging along the pages. Since they were unable to use MACUSA'S resources in setting up something like a Vanishing Cabinet between her rooms and wherever Percival was staying, this was to be their main method of conversation when they were not together. Percival's own diary was wine red, but otherwise identical to hers in every way.

She opened the book and found a blank page staring back at her. She nodded to herself, heading into her bedroom and setting it there on the side table. He likely wouldn't be sending her any instruction until later in the day; for now she would eat, rest, bathe, and catch up on some sleep.

 

.

 

Tina's kiss had surprised him, but in a good way – the professional kind, of course. He could at least trust her to set herself up on her own, now, though he would still worry. Worrying was an integral part of Percival's life, and it definitely wasn't going to go away overnight.

He could certainly do with some sleep, though that would have to wait. He needed to get his own rooms set up, call on a few of MACUSA'S people that he would be expected to announce himself to, and make a scene.

It was three in the afternoon when he was able to get to that last item on his list, which involved heading to Flight Street. There was a certain shop he needed to go in, and a certain item he needed to buy in order to set his fake relationship with Tina into motion. He had not mentioned it to her in the cab – she had seemed flustered enough at points that he figured he would only bring it up once he had it to give to her.

The store he was looking for was where it always was, tucked away on a side street, between a book shop and a small cafe. Its windows were covered with scarlet-coloured drapes, which shifted gently in a magical breeze. A wooden sign with the words THE DAME hung over the doorway, surrounded by carvings of skulls and leaves.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside, upsetting a shrunken head which swung about just beyond the entryway. “Hello, fancy man!” it chortled. He ignored it, striding past, deeper into the shop.

It appeared deserted, but he knew that would not last for long.

Near the back of the shop, along the wall next to several bookcases, were what he was looking for. Glass counters full of jewellery, rings and necklaces and bracelets and all other such adornments in a wide array of metals and stones. But it was the stand draped with long, beaded necklaces that caught his eye.

They were long and elegant, in the fashion of the day, meant to adorn the slender neck of a young lady. The beads were small and multicoloured, stacked in a long strand, artfully arranged in a silent spell. The necklaces all had hanging from them a flower-shaped ornament. The flowers were all different colours and types but lifelike, lush stamens trembling against soft flower petals.

Percival reached out, plucking up a necklace holding a delicate white orchid head, considering it.

Any woman who wanted to prevent pregnancy could get a charm like the one Percival was holding, but just like all other contraceptives – magical or non-magical – it was not guaranteed to work all the time, every time. It was possible to improve on the magic there, however, with the right spells.

Not that Percival planned on putting it to use at all, but he had a certain lie that needed to be constructed, and just any charm wouldn't do.

“Can I help you?” a woman's voice, low and dusky, curled its way from between the shelves. He looked up to see her glide into view, the living embodiment of her own voice, though her grace was hampered by the look of surprise on her face. “My, my. Percival Graves, as I live and breathe.”

A scowl worked its way onto his face, but it was a ruse; she was _just_ who he was hoping on seeing. If any of her shop girls had been the one to appear, the news would have reached her much more slowly. “Damiana,” he greeted. “You look well.”

She shifted her hips, coming closer. Her long, dark hair was bundled up at the back of her head into a faux bob, and her sparkling black dress swirled around her. Her eyes focused on what he was holding, and she gave him a grin. “Thank you,” she said. “You don't look like you're going to try to arrest me again; actually, you look like you're on the search for something.”

He put the charm down to greet her; she came in close, pressing a single kiss to both of his cheeks. “I am,” he agreed.

His history with Damiana Rawley was complicated. He came across her often whenever he worked in the south, but his first meeting with her had been many years ago, when he was still a junior Auror trying to get his footing. Even back then she had been a formidable witch, and her influence and power had grown since.

She had, so to speak, her finger in many pies. On the outside she was a merchant and a craftswoman, and while this was her one brick and mortar shop she did a roaring mail order trade to homes across the country. MACUSA had, many times, brought her up on a variety of charges: smuggling, selling magical items to No-Majs, and rare creatures trafficking, to name a few. But she had never so much as set a foot anywhere near prison; she was too smart for that, had too many levels and layers of her trade to ever get caught red-handed.

She did good work too, however. She invested both time and money into the running of Lady Talon's Home for Lost Souls, an institution famous for its care of No-Maj born witches and wizards left in the clutches of No-Maj orphanages who considered the children cursed, or worse. In fact, all three of Damiana's children were No-Maj borns whom she had adopted.

Just like most wizards and witches there was some good to her, and some bad; in fact, she had been very important in his formative years, when he had come to the realization that the distinction between good and evil was a hard line to find. He respected and understood her, but he'd never trust her.

“Are you sure you're in the right place?” she teased as she stepped back from him, sweeping her gaze over the jewellery counter.

Percival raised an eyebrow. “You shouldn't talk down to your customers, Damiana,” he said. “It will give you the wrong sort of reputation.”

She laughed.

“I'm sure I have what you need,” she said, beckoning for him to follow her. She lead him to the door behind the counter, curtained with beads, and brushed it aside.

“Kate,” she said, to a blond witch standing there, blending herbs and depositing them into canisters and jars. Medicinal teas, he guessed. “Watch the front for me. And don't disturb us unless it's important.”

“Yes, madame.”

They passed the worktable, where Damiana and her staff put together a multitude of items and filled hundreds upon hundreds of orders sent out with the post. He knew the way to her private rooms, but allowed her to take the lead.

As he expected, she took them both, not to her office, but a smaller room. The walls were almost entirely shelves crowded with jars and vases and tins of unknown items, and baubles of light floated in the air, giving the area an otherworldly glow.

“Make yourself at home, Mister Graves,” she said, a wave of her hand pushing a chair away from the long, low table in the middle. She sat down across from him, her back to a hanging black curtain, the only part of the wall that wasn't full of shelves. Damiana offered scrying services to those prepared to pay top dollar, but for now the mirror was covered.

“The privacy isn't required,” he noted as he sat. Sure, contraceptive charms weren't legal, but they technically weren't illegal, either. Those with the money and the desire could and would get them, and the law never did anything about the manufacture and sale of such items. It was mostly frowned upon by the more prim, old-minded sections of society.

“I respect your reputation, Mister Graves,” Damiana said, with a large smirk that told him she was absolutely lying.

“Your _own_ , perhaps.”

She tipped her head forward in admittance. “Now,” she said, opening a smooth wooden case set on the table. Once the lid was open she was able to pull out several drawers and pulleys, and soon half the table was taken up with velvet-lined compartments full of tools. “Let's get started.”

“You don't even know what I want.”

“Oh, I do,” she said, with a smirk. Sometimes, if he hadn't trained himself in Occlumency, he swore she must be a Legilimens, reading everyone's mind, including his own. “You've got a woman, Percival Graves, and you're certainly not prepared to marry her should things go awry.”

“And how do you know that?”

“You men all want the same thing,” she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “And if you'd wanted any run of the mill charm, you'd have paid for it and been long gone. No, we're going to make it personal. Now hold out your hand.”

Rolling his eyes, Percival did as he was asked, and watched as she brought out an empty bottle – more like a vial, flat-bottomed and the size of a pebble. She tugged the tiny stopper out with her teeth and then set it between them, before producing a small, silver knife from her case of drawers.

She cradled his hand in her palm, and with her free hand took the knife and gave a small, careful stab, sinking the tip of the blade into the fleshy spot at the base of his thumb – the Mount of Venus, it was called. It hurt, but not enough to make him tug his hand away.

She held up the knife and they both watched several red drops of blood roll down and then plop into the vial. That done, she handed him the knife, before standing and heading to one of her shelves, taking down a bottle of amber liquid.

While she was doing that, Percival wiped the knife clean, then took out his wand and tapped it against the blade, ensuring that no trace of his blood was left behind. Blood magic was dangerous in the wrong hands, and they both knew it.

Damiana poured a few drops of the amber potion into the vial, where it mixed with his blood, and stoppered it. “There,” she said. “Pour this over any of our charms, and give it to your lady love to ward her against you. It will fade after six months; if she still excites you, come back to me and we can make another bottle. Or perhaps after six months you'll stop being a scoundrel and decide to marry her, who knows, and you won't be so concerned that she remain childless.”

He ran his fingertip over the cut in his palm, using a wisp of magic to close it. “I trust you've used regulated ingredients,” he said, eyeing the potion bottle she was placing back on the shelf.

She just laughed at him again. “I'd be a fool to use anything but in front of the Director of Magical Security,” she said, her eyes dancing merrily. “Even if he has been put on leave – yes, I heard. A vacation ought to do wonders for your mood, Mister Graves.”

“Your concern touches me.”

“It's _all_ that'll touch you of mine,” she replied. “Whoever she is, I can't wait to meet her.”

“You won't.”

Her smile had far too much teeth in it. “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT: PERCIVAL GRAVES IS A FANCY MAN. 
> 
> Sorry if the buildup seems slow; the parties and the danger and the craziness will hopefully start soon. Damiana is also the first of many OCs that will be making an appearance, I've decided she looks like Rosario Dawson.  
> I thought I'd ask you, the readers, for a bit of help in the OC regard. I have several roles I want to fill but hate making up descriptions. For those of you with an RP background, care to throw a couple of PBs my way? Send me one male and one female PB to choose from and if they catch my eye I'll use 'em. Right now I'm 'casting' for a few back room gamblers and a singer.
> 
> And remember, comments make the world go round! (Or at least make me write faster because like all writers I am a sucker for positive reinforcement)


	4. grinning goblins

Tina resisted the urge to pick up the blue diary and write _I'm so bored_ to Percival. But Merlin, she was.

He was likely having a better time than she was, because he had people to see. Tina, though, was Mariana Moon, a nobody, a stranger in the city. There was little she could do until she was finally drawn into the wizarding world of New Orleans, something which had to happen organically. Unfortunately, Percival couldn't just take her to Flight Street, not while he was pretending to be hiding her.

For the past four days, she had spent her evenings with him out on the town. She was relieved at how quickly her awkwardness around him dissipated, and she hung on his arm and touched his back and kissed him as often and ardently as propriety would allow. During the day she would lounge about in the hotel, or even go shopping, padding out her wardrobe. But she wasn't able to befriend any of the No-Majs, which left her with little company; and most of her conversations with Graves were, of course, entirely fake, except when they corresponded using the diaries.

It was a waiting game, and she wondered if he was getting as frustrated by the lack of movement as she was. Probably not, he was too experienced for that.

He'd told her it was likely to do with the timing. It technically _was_ the holidays, after all, for wizards and non wizards alike. Tina had celebrated Yule with Queenie before she'd been drafted onto the case, so at least she'd had that. Really, it was hard to understand the festive feeling in the air. Ignoring the lack of snow in New Orleans, the entirety of December felt completely unreal. Then combine that with the fact most of her socializing was done with Percival Graves, where it was hard to connect him with any sort of holiday whatsoever, Tina wouldn't know what day it was if it weren't for calendars.

Finally, with a sigh, she picked up her quill and opened the diary. _Going for a walk_ , she wrote out, neatly, and accompanied it with the time, the planned streets and name of the cafe she was going to head to. They had agreed they would keep each other appraised of one another's movements, even if she had yet to begin sniffing out Grindelwald's supporters.

She put on a soft emerald coloured dress, simple but elegantly tailored, tied on her heels, and picked up her small beaded purse, which was just able to fit her cigarette case, some money, and the diary. Most of her new clothes were No-Maj made and thus lacking any wand pocket; and since Tina couldn't sew or do any related spells, she'd compensated with a garter that held her wand securely in place (she'd gotten it from Queenie, before leaving New York).

Ready, she set out, blowing a playful kiss to the bellboy, and then to the man who had greeted her when she'd first arrived (Roger, his name was). Just like the day before it was humid and hot, and she kept to the shade as she walked; it helped slightly.

All she'd seen of New Orleans was this. She knew that further out, some parts of the city still hadn't put up streetlights, but here everything was clean and gleaming. Even so, she knew the white Protestant No-Majs were ever concerned with the colourful life of New Orleans breaching their respectable homes, forever worried about brothels, dance halls, mixed races, and Catholics. She wondered again what Flight Street would be like – surely it turned respectability on its head – and felt the tug of curiosity she firmly tamped down.

Because she had gotten used to disappointment, the idea that something new would happen did not occur to her, even though she was wishing for it. The mind was like that, always setting itself up for disappointment. She was inside of a cafe, smoking a cigarette, nursing a cup of rich, dark coffee while reading an old copy of _The Double Dealer_ , when she suddenly was no longer alone.

“Would you mind some company?” It was a woman, a bright smile on her young face, partially hidden by the elegant curve of her hat.

Tina smiled, feeling tense but not letting it show. She couldn't be distracted by a No-Maj, even if she was bored as Hell lately. “Not at all,” she said, tapping her cigarette, sending a dab of ash tumbling down into the ashtray.

The woman settle in the other chair, ordering an iced tea from the waiter. “Goodness,” she said. “I need to rest my feet. I've been looking for days.”

Suddenly, Tina was on high alert, but she maintained her calm, bringing the flattened mouth of her cigarette holder to her lips and taking a long draw. “Oh?” she asked, breathing out a stream of smoke. “For what?”

The woman smiled. Despite everything she seemed warm and friendly. “You,” she said. “My boss is Damiana Rawley. She wanted to see if you'd like to get a drink with her. With us, actually. We're rather informal.”

Tina folded her magazine shut, one-handed, and set it down on the table. “I don't know who that is,” she said, vaguely. She let her words out slowly, uncaring, like her heart wasn't racing, like this wasn't the development they had been waiting for.

The woman laughed. “She's the one who helped personalize that necklace,” she said, nodding to the violet-shaped charm that hung halfway down Tina's chest. “I helped him pick that one out, though. It really suits your colouring, I'm glad we didn't go with the iris. I'm Kate, by the way.”

“Would you like a cigarette, Kate?” Tina asked, suddenly, in the charade of trying to change the subject, as any woman would do in such a situation. It was rather crass to point out a contraceptive device in public, after all. Part of her still couldn't believe she owned one, even as part of her cover.

“I would love one.”

Tina made a show of reaching into her purse, pulling out the silver cigarette case, opening it and offering it to the other woman. “I'm Mariana,” she said. “But I still don't know who you or this Damiana is.”

The waiter returned with Kate's iced tea, as well as struck a match to light her cigarette for her before leaving them alone again. “You wouldn't,” she agreed. “I mean, Graves has been keeping you under lock and key, hasn't he?”

Tina – well, Mariana – flushed angrily. “No, he hasn't.”

“He has! How long have you been in New Orleans? You haven't even been to the Grinning Goblin yet! Sweet girl, you've barely had any fun and this is the most entertaining city in the entire country, the entire _world_. Have you even had a proper drink? You know the No-Majs are trying to ruin that for everyone, even here in sin city.”

Tina scowled. “I've had fun.”

“You can have even more fun,” Kate insisted. “You're not afraid he'll get angry, are you? I'll give him a sharp slap and a talking-to.”

Tina raised her chin, proudly. “I'm not afraid of anyone,” she scoffed. “I do whatever the Hell I want, and _he_ does whatever the Hell I want.”

“Then _darling_ ,” Kate exclaimed. “Come for a drink!”

“I'll think about it.”

“I bet I'll have you convinced before this ice melts,” she said, holding up her glass, the moisture already beading up on the outside. Tina made a show of grudgingly picking up her own drink and tapping it to Kate's.

By the time the ice had melted, someone had definitely been convinced of something, but it wasn't Tina, and it wasn't Mariana, either.

 

.

 

_4:05PM drinking with Damiana and assorted, safe, Grinning Goblin_

 

The best way to tell a lie was to involve the truth. That was something every Auror learned, to his or her dismay. Sometimes, after years in the field, it became difficult to remember which was the truth, which the falsehood. _Where do they end, and I begin?_ was a question turned over in the minds of many witches and wizards over the years. Percival had found himself thinking it, even.

The danger was more present now than ever before, however, because now he was playing himself, and the questions were almost a constant mantra. _Where does the broken man become whole again? Which is my real face?_

And Tina, too, was playing the dangerous game. Which parts of her were truly enjoying herself, he wondered? When he stepped into the Grinning Goblin and descended down the steps, into the basement where strains of jazz were already curling their way up the stairs, a part of him knew what he would find: a young woman, drinking, laughing, enjoying herself. How much of it would be Mariana Moon, how much Tina Goldstein? They both had to be present, hands entwined, if Tina was going to be able to pull the facade off.

Over the days he had been watching her. As she had mentioned in the cab she did not play _decorative_ very well, and unfortunately that had been her only role up until now. A part of him sensed she was restless, chomping at the bit. She needed to run, to be free. And while that wildness suited Mariana Moon to an extent, it suggested a powerlessness, too, that Tina could not afford to reveal.

He wrote down his observations in the diary, so that she could read them at her leisure, and he was pleased to find her improving each day. He was almost grateful for the quiet days, so that he could mentor her, but now the chase had truly begun and he would need to trust her, now, more than ever before.

Easier said than done, as Goldstein would change with this job – they all did, all of the young Aurors. They could discuss how they wanted to play their parts as much as they liked, but Percival knew that in the end their roles would be chemical responses, shifting and moving naturally on their own to suit the environment, the situations they would be surrounded in. And in that change, something in Mariana Moon's personality might permanently attach to Tina, when all was said and done. _Which would be the real Tina Goldstein?_

 _You're worrying again_ , Percival told himself.

He had been in the Grinning Goblin before. In terms of establishments it was on the higher end, catering mostly to business owners and workers on Flight Street, a good place to drink and listen to music and meet with friends. Because of that, Percival had not bothered to show up until a couple of hours later, around the time when he would have swung by the hotel and discovered Mariana to have gone out. Plenty of time for Tina to establish herself in the Goblin.

He identified her by the flash of her hair. The red looked good on her, which was to say it was very unlike Tina, and helped to hide her identity. Personally, he preferred brunettes.

She was sitting at a table sandwiched between two women, one of whom he recognized as the witch that had been working in The Dame when he had dropped by upon first arriving to New Orleans. He'd bet money she had been the one to locate Mariana Moon for her boss. The second witch had silky hair cut into a daring Eton crop, her features dark and aquiline. The rest of the people at the table were wizards, all of them jockeying for the attention of the women.

While the magical community in New York had a distinctly European flavour, New Orleans was different – perhaps the most European thing about it was the Spanish and French influences, but even much of that was Cajun or Creole at its core. Witches and wizards from Latin America, the Caribbean, and Africa, gathered shoulder to shoulder: combining magic, inventing spells, brewing potions and having a rollicking time. There were no ridiculous race laws to prevent the intermingling of blood in the American wizarding world, unless that blood happened to be No-Maj.

The magic here was riskier, more unstable, and harder to police, as he'd told Tina. But he'd also told her that she must do whatever it took to make it in this world, even if it meant breaking the law. Suffice it to say, he was glad she simply looked tipsy by the time he arrived. If you asked for it, any of the places on Flight Street and elsewhere would happily brew a tea that promised for a rather euphoric evening out, and he would not put it past any of the women working for Damiana to order a batch.

Speaking of Damiana-

“Your girl is an absolute _morsel_ , Percival,” she purred into his ear, slipping her arm in his. “I can see why you've been keeping her to yourself.”

“Shouldn't you be at your shop?”

“I'm the boss, I do whatever I want.”

“Did you really have to abduct her?” he asked, pulling away from her, as well as pulling a face. Damiana just laughed at him.

“She came willingly, I promise,” she replied. “She just needed some company, I think. You know, with women. _Her own age_.”

“She's not as young as she looks.”

“Oh, lucky you.”

“Surely you're not jealous, Damiana,” he reasoned, catching the eye of the house elf scuttling by with a tray of drinks, and giving a nod. Soon enough, a glass of whiskey was floating its way to his hand.

“As jealous as you are joyful, love.”

“Percy!”

Tina – Mariana – was lounging back in her chair, her cheeks flushed from, he presumed, a combination of laughter and liquor. She was draped in beads that flashed and glittered, her dress partially transparent to show the luxurious colouring of her slip beneath. She was every inch the fashionable mistress.

“Percy, honey, there you are,” she purred, holding her gloved hands out to him. As he swept around the table to get to her he could see the shoulders of the other wizards tensing, just for a moment. He doubted they knew who he was, but the ridiculous herd mentality among men meant that they needed to gauge whether this interloper was dangerous or not. “I was wondering when you'd be by to kidnap me.”

He stooped down to her ear, speaking in a stage murmur meant to be overheard. “This is a rescue,” he teased, and watched as a slow, pleased smile curled its way across her face.

She was doing better than he expected.

“Nice to see you again, Mister Graves,” the blonde witch greeted, with a smirk.

“We've been trying to teach her French,” said the other. “ _O un poco de Español_. There are no good erotica novels in English, can you believe that?”

“We'll have to pick up with the language lessons later,” Mariana announced, with a wiggle of her shoulders. Percival took his cue, stepping back to pull her chair out for her, letting her stand with grace. “I promised my evening away already, and he's terrible about getting me back before midnight.”

Percival took out a cigarette, tapping it against the silver side of his case for a moment to settle the tobacco. “You're terrible about getting me back before dawn,” he responded.

Mariana stepped in close to him, smoothing her hands over his waistcoat and tucking his cigarette case away for him. She leaned in close and for a moment he wondered what she was doing; she couldn't kiss him with a cigarette clamped between his lips.

What she did was even stranger, more surprising. She let out a soft, sighing breath, and he felt the unmistakable tingle of magic against his skin, and the end of his cigarette flared to life.

She gave him a smug smile at the look he gave her; he wasn't sure what it was, but it was probably similar to the looks all the other wizards were wearing as they watched her.

“We're both bad at telling time,” she allowed, glancing over her shoulder at her two new friends, before her gaze finally wracked up to Damiana, who was standing by the bar, wearing a closed expression. “We get lost for days. Maybe we'll see you in time for New Year's Eve. Kate, Veronique, au revoir. Let's go, Percy, I'm famished.”

He took a drag of his cigarette. “Let's,” he said, exhaling smoke, wrapping his arm around her waist.

 

They went for a stroll down Flight Street, first, which at this time of early evening was teeming with people. Shoppers, diners, women chasing their incorrigible offspring. He knew that Tina was watching everything with a calculating mind, but for all intents and purposes she had only eyes and interest for Percival.

“I'm exhausted,” she said, nuzzling close to him as they walked. Her hand played almost mindlessly with his lapels. “Can't we just go home, Percy? We can order something in.”

He was glad she'd made the suggestion; now at least they could convene in private and she could update him on what she had learned.

They'd agreed beforehand that Percival Apparating to her hotel was acceptable so long as they were careful, if only because it struck home the clandestine nature of the relationship. It was also entertaining to make the bellhops and concierges and anyone else think they were frightfully bad at their jobs when it came to the comings and goings of their guests, and you had to find fun wherever you could on these sort of cases.

Percival was already waiting on the couch in her suite's sitting area when she let herself in. Mariana Moon stepped into her room, but Tina Goldstein shut the door.

He hadn't seen the real Tina in days, at least not for longer than a few minutes. It was good to see she was still there. “Alright?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I've never smoked that many cigarettes in one go in _my life_ ,” she admitted. Now that he thought about it, she _was_ looking a little bit green. The alcohol probably hadn't helped matters, either. “I thought I was going to pass out halfway up the street.”

“Sit, Goldstein,” he said, getting to his feet and guiding her to the couch. She collapsed there in a lump. “I'll order up food. Is there anything you absolutely can't abide?”

“Garlic,” she said.

He gave her an offended look. “That's impossible,” he said. “Nobody dislikes garlic.”

“I do,” she insisted.

“Are you a vampire?”

“No, but I'll be undead soon if you don't get me some food, Mister Graves, _sir_ ,” she said, with a scowl. He did his best not to smile. As he'd hoped, she no longer seemed nervous around him by now, which had been a primary concern. Nerves led to mistakes, and mistakes were dangerous.

He was worrying again. _Stop it_.

“Alright I don't mind garlic,” she said, all in a rush, surprising him from his thoughts. He was starting to suspect she was drunker than she looked. “As long as there isn't too much of it. I just feel really seasick right now. Without the sea, right.”

“I'll order up the blandest meal they have,” he said, dryly. “Go wash up and change, it might help.”

“A time turner would help,” she said, but slouched off towards her bedroom and bathroom in any case.

 

.

 

Her head was swimming. She filled a glass of water from the tap at her sink and drank deep, then splashed more water over her face. Her mouth still tasted of cigarettes and gin. She had been careful to keep her drinking to a minimum and she had a pretty strong constitution, but like she'd told Graves, she wasn't used to cigarettes just yet.

The food arrived while she was scrubbing the makeup off of her face, so she was relieved to be able to change into her not-at-all-risque pyjamas, feeling a bit more like herself, without blowing her cover as Mariana.

“Not too drunk to go over the day, are you, Tina?” he asked. They'd definitely discussed beforehand that one or both of them would likely get intoxicated from time to time, but she sort of wished he'd gotten drunk first, because she still felt like she had done something wrong while he studied her, quite sober.

“No sir,” she said. “Just a bit wobbly on my feet, is all.”

With the coffee table in front of them standing in as a shared desk, they started to go over the day as well as going through the food that had arrived. Tina was glad Percival had also ordered up a fresh pot of coffee, which was helping her focus a bit better. It was a strange experience for her, realizing halfway through that she and Percival were speaking as equals. Of course they were partners in this case, but it was still strange.

They went through each individual she had met, discussing every one at length. When she was able she wrote down names as well as descriptions, her first impressions of them, and what they did for a living. Most of them Percival was prepared to brush off as simple civilians, comparing his observations to her gut instinct. There were some that they would try to keep an eye on, however.

“What about Damiana Rawley?” Tina asked, as the midnight hour approached, the coffee long gone and her eyes starting to sting. “And her workers. Do you think they're dangerous?”

To her relief, Percival shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don't. But they might be useful. Damiana is profit-minded, more or less, but considering her background with No-Maj born orphans she'd be sympathetic to supporters of Grindelwald claiming to be protecting the wizarding people. What do you think?”

Tina considered the papers before her, a new file they were working on together. The names of the witches and wizards she'd met that day were scratched out in rows; lines on a parchment, not people at all. “I think they're worth investigating, for the time being,” she said.

“Then do so.”

“I'm supposed to lunch with Kate and Veronique soon,” she added. “I'll keep you updated. And I think going out on New Year's Eve will be beneficial, too.”

“I agree.”

“What will you be doing, sir?” she asked. It was a toss up as to whether he was following his own leads within MACUSA – after all, this case was confidential, and no one in the New Orleans office had cause to suspect Percival was doing anything but rubbing elbows with some of his coworkers – or secretly keeping an eye on her.

“Gathering intel,” he said, simply.

Great, that could _literally_ be anything. “Are we done for tonight?”

“I think so.” For the first time ever she saw him stretch. He had taken off his suit jacket, and his tightly-buttoned waistcoat and shirt showed off a very lithe figure. She tried not to look at him too closely, but also wondered what he thought of her, in her sparkly dresses and stockings. If he thought of her at all. Percival Graves was an incredibly good-looking man, and Tina nothing more than a regular woman with a bit of rouge slapped on. Having a beautiful sister left her with very few illusions in that regard. “Mind if I stay on the couch?”

Tina shook her head, her red curls bouncing. She'd expected him to ask, now that staying overnight was definitely going to become a normal part of their cover now that they'd been 'discovered'. “You may as well take the bed with me,” she said, getting to her feet.

“The couch is fine.”

“Mister Graves,” she said, dryly. “You're a good foot and a half taller than the couch is long, if not more. The bed is plenty big enough. It's like a sea of blankets. There won't be any awkward colliding during the night. Unless,” she added, “you're a wild sleeper. In which case I'll take the couch.”

“I tend to keep to myself.”

“Good.”

Well, at least he respected her enough not to argue the point in some misplaced sense of masculinity.

Knowing Percival as she did now, she was confident that this was an acceptable call. Graves wasn't like any other man – that is to say, she trusted him. He was her boss, and mentor. One day, perhaps, he would be her friend. If the tables had been turned and she was in his rooms – which might one day happen during this case – she would have been completely comfortable, trusting in him. She wanted him to trust in her.

The only other men she would trust in such a regard were Newt and Jacob. She missed them, for her own sake and Queenie's. Her sister deserved a good man. She supposed they both did, but if Tina had to choose between her own happiness and Queenie's, her sister would win every time.

She had more or less prepared for bed before sitting down to eat, so once she was certain all of the papers were organized she stood up and headed for the bedroom. Percival remained behind, penning a few notes on some of the folders. Some of his hair had escaped and hung in his eyes as he worked.

“Don't stay up too late,” she called out gently (sounding a lot like her mother, she thought with a wince, as well as a touch of sadness). She pulled the covers up and slipped underneath. The blankets had a slight chill to them, but they would warm soon.

She was so tired, her body worn out from the events of the day, that she almost slept clear through Percival getting into the bed with her. As it was she felt the pull of the blankets, the shift in the mattress. She closed her eyes, imagining how far away he was – and also how close.

 _Don't be ridiculous, Tina_ , she thought to herself. Only she was fool enough to kiss this man without a care in the world, but become distracted by him sleeping a foot away from her. She desperately wanted to say goodnight; instead she closed her eyes, and let herself drift off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Double Dealer_ was a literary magazine from New Orleans. Tina's reading old copies because it was discontinued a few months earlier, in May 1926.
> 
> If you're interested at all in the cultural landscape of New Orleans at the turn of the century, I've been reading _Empire of Sin: A Story of Sex, Jazz, Murder, and the Battle for Modern New Orleans_ by Gary Krist for research purposes.
> 
> Also I hope you enjoyed saucy!Mariana 'cause you're gonna see a lot of her~


	5. out to lunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter than the others, but the next one should make up for it, because Shit Happens and it will require A Lot of Words. Obviously still in formative stages, but the next few chapters will reveal the reason why this story is rated M, so fair warning.
> 
> For now, enjoy some magical groundwork and my take on Percival's background (it just really entertains me to think he comes from some grand old wizarding family, but he thinks they're all assholes). And his connection to a (probably very cool and sexy) Quidditch player. READ ON, YO.

“Tea?” Veronique asked.

She was the sort of woman Tina could appreciate. While boyish in appearance – she was straight and flat as an ironing board, her hair cropped superbly short, and disliked makeup – she was as ladylike as Queenie in her movements and charm.

“What kind of tea?” Tina, now Mariana, asked, raising her eyebrows, and Kate laughed.

“Just some green tea,” Veronique said, with a smile. “Though if you feel like treading the stars at midnight, we can definitely brew together a different blend later.”

“We can send you a sachet home, to share with Mister Graves,” Kate suggested. “You've no need to worry, Mariana. We don't drug our friends. Or our enemies, really; it's dreadfully expensive stuff.”

It was two days after their time at the Grinning Goblin, Mariana having come over for lunch as she had promised as soon as the girls had the day off. Not only did Kate and Veronique work together, they lived together as well in the upper level of a house. Their landlord was a wizard, which made their comings and goings much less stressful than Tina's own home situation.

They sat together in the small area just beyond the kitchenette, by the window. It was a sunny day and it filled the place with buttery warmth. Tina, who had barely been sleeping for the last few nights, resisted the urge to close her eyes and drift off.

“Do you both make special brews for Madame Rawley?” Mariana asked, watching Veronique pour the tea for them. “Percy hasn't taken me into the shop yet, I'm dying to go.”

“I do the teas,” Kate admitted, with a faint smile. “Herbal blends. Not the way you think – not all of it is for euphoria. I do blends for pain, and relaxation. Pick-me-ups for lonely mothers with quarrelsome children and angry husbands. Right now I'm experimenting with something to negate pregnancy. You know, for girls too shy or broke to spring for one of those,” she crooked a finger at Mariana's flower necklace, “or the No-Maj options. But it's a difficult blend. You take it after the fact.”

“I work with stones,” Veronique added, taking a seat. She had done the lunch up herself – an array of sandwiches, fruit and cheese, and cream puffs from a local bakery ('we can't do anything with whipped cream, magic or no,' she'd admitted. 'I guess talent needs to run out somewhere'). “And weaving. Binding charms, and all that. A few dolls.”

“Dolls?”

“You know,” Kate said, with a wink, miming a jabbing motion. “Dolls. With the needles.”

“It's not like that,” Veronique was quick to add. “No, no – you hear about those, but that's not what they're used for, normally. The dolls can create a connection between it and the human body. Healing and goodwill. Sex, sometimes. But mostly protection. I can weave in the right spells and you can create the same connection between the doll and someone else in – well, the same way Madame Rawley created the connection between that necklace and Mister Graves.”

Tina had been too shy, but Mariana was more than willing to ask questions. “How does it work, anyway?” she asked, plucking up the violet charm and looking at it. It really was very beautiful; it was easy to see why such necklaces were both torrid and fashionable for wild young women. Kate didn't wear one, but Veronique was never seen without hers. “Percy says it's personalized for me.”

“In a way,” Kate said, relaxing back into her rather plush chair. “A charm like that is technically a ward, for protection. It keeps you in a certain state of health – health which doesn't involve pregnancy. You can strengthen the charm if you have a certain lover. A bit of his blood and the right hoodoo and the charm will ward against him specifically. That is to say, it's already difficult for another man to knock you up, but with Percival Graves it's nearly impossible. Not without _quite_ a few swings of the bat, if you get my meaning.”

Tina would have blushed, but Mariana laughed, rather uproariously. “No need for th e caution ,” she said. “He's my one and only. For now.”

“How did you meet him?”

Mariana added some sugar to her tea. “Through my last one,” she said, idly.

“Well, anyway,” Veronique continued. “The dolls I make we use for protection. You can protect a doll, and the person it represents is safe from harm, at least to an extent. What you cast at the doll then connects with the person it represents. It can be abused, so I'll only fill orders for dolls for the witch or wizard ordering it. So I would only sell a Kate Doll to Kate, and so on.”

“Veronique's one of the few trustworthy craftswomen in this city,” Kate sighed. She sounded sad, not for Veronique, but for the city itself. “New Orleans, it's a dangerous place. If you ever want to buy something questionable, Mariana, come to us. We won't cheat or lie to you.”

“We've done bad things,” Veronique said, so calmly and smoothly that it surprised Tina. “Sometimes, when people deserve it. I've cursed my fair share of wizards. But power is a funny thing. I know what it is, what it does, and what I'm doing. I've studied many years to get to this point. Kate – she's a beginner, aren't you, love?”

“I am,” Kate agreed. “I take your lead.”

“Power is like a sword in the fire,” Veronique explained. “Pick it up without wearing the right glove, and it'll burn you. But regardless, you might get cut anyway, so you handle with care. It's fools who don't give a damn that hurt the rest of us.”

“And this city is full of fools,” Kate added.

Tina understood. How many years had it taken for her to build up the strength and the knowledge to become adept at the most intimidating of Auror spells? To prove she could even  _know_ about them without hurting herself? In the same way Veronique knew her craft, so did Tina know hers – spells to pick up magical signatures, or old blood, or anguish and pain, or even death. Spells she didn't have to say aloud to hurt and hinder. Spells to strengthen her muscles, suck the energy out of her enemy, to shield and block and attack and protect. 

All of that magic she had spent years studying, creating the foundation so she could build herself up. And all of it was magic that if used by the wrong person could spell catastrophe.

“Then I'll always come to you,” Mariana promised, raising her teacup in a salute. 

 

.

 

While Tina had spent her first week in New Orleans trying to be noticed  before beginning to ingratiate herself into the fashionable elite, Percival had been getting settled in with the old-fashioned elite. There were two major differences between the two sets of people: money, and blood.

It wasn't just old money that was  important , here: it was how that money was earned. Respectable  political positions or deeply settled business owners dating back centuries, for example. Damiana Rawley, one of the most successful businesswomen in the south, was after all that considered too brash and unseemly to be invited in,  unless she f ind herself a respectable husband.

Graves himself, while rather well-paid by MACUSA, also came from old money and old blood, both of which he preferred to do without – and did . In fact, the only person he liked in his family was his cousin, who,  along with not being a class-obsessed prig , was one of the first female Quidditch players in North America. Luckily she'd married young and t aken her husband's surname, so no one at the office had yet figured out how  Percival always managed to get the best tickets for every  sold-out Quidditch  match.  When it came to the Graves family fortune, Percival and his cousin had a hands-off policy, which prevented their family from trying to tell them how to conduct their lives.

He wished he could do without his surname altogether, but admittedly it did open doors, even if he didn't much like walking through them. Those first four days in New Orleans had been spent being invited to old cronies of his father's, which was mind-numbingly boring and also involved him being introduced to a bevvy of young ladies (a part of him couldn't wait to see the outrage on their fathers' faces when news of Mariana reached them, as would happen sooner or later). 

He'd also touched base with several members of Magical Law Enforcement, enough to know that most of them we re trying to keep him at a distance, which made sense with the situation as it was (or rather, been orchestrated into being). That left a majority of Percival's leads to be the upper class, which was annoying but still very useful. Grindelwald was a young revolutionary, that was true, but some of his ideas were very old indeed. Percival was well aware that the Statute of Secrecy was, in some parts, racially motivated,  with extensive support in the upper class .  It was nauseating to be surrounded by it. On those days, Tina was the best part of his schedule, even if she was just pretending to be Mariana Moon the whole time.

Growing up  in a world where class wars were still going strong , he'd vowed early on to always be careful. He would protect the innocent and keep the vulnerable safe.  He would do his best not to care where anyone came from, but focus only on where they were going. As he'd gone from rebellious schoolboy to serious Auror, he had hoped that the changing times would mean he had company in this mindset.

Alas, the doddery old fools of yesteryear had simply bred a new generation of arrogant elitists to keep the line going strong. The last school reunion Percival had attended was seven years ago, where he had punched one of his old school chums squarely in the nose. He had been summarily banned from those gatherings, but they had a hard time keeping him out of the gentlemen's clubs and country estates when he felt like utilizing them. Which he was doing now. Unfortunately.

T he scotch in his glass was,  apparently, very fine, but Percival had never been one for scotch, preferring the uncomplicated burn of a good bourbon. The scotch was mostly a prop to keep one hand busy while he circulated, his talk going anywhere from politics to the best tobacco brand.

It was as always confounding to think that the richest of men were the ones who worked the least. Or at least, their form of work was the hand-shaking kind. This was a world where who you knew and who you had lunch with dictated your successful climb in any industry. Percival had been strongly hinting at considering a change in occupation, citing dissatisfaction with MACUSA, and the resulting invites to soirees and concerts and festivities had been staggering. The fact the upper crust were still willing to trade on his family name was almost entertaining if it weren't so damn annoying.

Mostly, Percival kept his wits sharp. In the same way Tina was exposing herself to the young bohemian set of intellectuals, Percival was concerning himself with old racism and prim upbringing. There would be overlapping ideologies in both; that was the power of Gellert Grindelwald,  t hat was how he managed to do whatever it was he  wanted.

“Percival!” it was Tobias Mope, technically the son of a distant family friend, but Percival knew him mostly from his years at Ilvermorny; they'd been in the same house, though Tobias was four years his junior. “Glad to see you've finally made it south without MACUSA nipping at your heels.”

As far as old cronies went, Tobias was actually a breath of fresh air. Sure, he had a definite shark-like quality to him, but he was intelligent, interesting, and more or less honest  (h e was completely open about being an absolute bastard ) .

“The weather's more agreeable here at this time of year,” Percival answered. 

“Lay off,” Tobias replied. “You've got a skirt, and she's real pretty if what I've heard is true.”

Percival sipped his scotch and managed to not pull a face. It was like drinking a distilled peat bog. “ So?  You think I'd get an ugly one?”

Tobias let out a hearty laugh that drew a few stares. “ Well  I also heard she's the reason you're down here,” he said. “You should let me thank her in person. I haven't seen you since  June of '23.”

“You have a source for all of this?” Percival asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Stop talking like an Auror, Graves.”

“Can't help it.”

“Well, if you _have_ to know, and I know  that you do,” Tobias said. “I've got my own lady and she's quite friendly with yours. You might've seen her. Short hair, an expression that could rob a bank. We're heading to a party tonight if you want to come along. It'd be nice to have another intellectual around.”

“I'd have to convince Mariana.”

“I'd figure it's Mariana that would have to convince _you_ ,” Tobias said. “The place is on Florence Boulevard. You remember the Sorrentinos? Yeah, their eldest married some girl from out in the sticks and he set up a club once his parents cut him off. It'll be fun, Graves, even for you.”


	6. gossamy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She thought about something Percival wrote in the diary, during those first days where he was coaching her.  
>  _I got this far because I took risks. I like to think that all of them were necessary._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is almost 7k words long, and entirely from Tina's POV. Like I said at the beginning of the story I'm editing this fast to get it up ASAP, so please forgive any errors. I might tweak it in parts, but hopefully it's up to snuff as is now.

The place was full of smoke and Tina couldn't tell how much of it was the cigarettes and how much of it a foggy, magical illusion. Green and purple lights flickered and danced about in the fog like fireflies, and everyone looked beautiful and glamourous even when they weren't.

Tina had put on a shimmery gold dress that showed off parts of her ivory slip underneath. She thought she matched rather nicely with Percival, whose shirt that evening was a distinct shade of luxurious off-white. Over the week she had gotten to know his style, his clothes. He by no means wore identical suits, but his tastes were refined and rarely shifted. Subtle pinstripes, dramatic bits of contrast here and there. His ties were normally subdued. He disliked hats, even though almost every other man was wearing one; he said he hated how they limited his vision, and only wore them when it was raining. She didn't know why, but knowing him like that made him more likeable, like he indeed was a human being who chose his clothes in the morning, not just a statue that came to life when the sun rose.

She had a shimmering halo of lifelike flowers entwined in her curly hair, a present Percival had gotten for Mariana. It made her look, she thought, like some kind of fire sprite or fairy, but she wore it regardless, and it was catching quite a lot of attention.

“How lovely,” one woman said, delicately touching one of the flowers.

“Mariana, this is Jade,” Kate introduced, twining an arm protectively around her. “Jade, this is my new friend Mariana.”

“Kate's spoken an awful lot about you,” Jade said, leaning into the blonde witch with a dazzling smile.

Suddenly, Veronique was there, butting her head in between Kate and Jade. “Where's your man Percy?”

Mariana glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, Graves had scampered off somewhere. “Who knows,” she said, motioning dismissively with her cigarette. “Gone for a drink, I suspect.”

“Maybe Toby took him,” Veronique said, which was surprising. In the few days Mariana had known her, she rarely mentioned Tobias by name, as if she couldn't be bothered. Mostly she referred to him as 'the money' or 'the pest', depending on her mood. “Ah well. Come on, you need to look around, there's people to meet.”

It was rather nice of Veronique to give Mariana the tour, so now she didn't have to bumble about herself.

The joint was not like the Grinning Goblin, which had been clean and classy; this was the sort of place where good taste came to die. The floor was sticky with alcohol. Some of the music was off key and people crowded in close without regards for personal space. It was thrilling and fun and exciting but also a security nightmare.

Through the noise there was a single voice, though, weaving through the smoke and the lights. A strong male voice, and then, shimmering and soft, a woman's. They matched with a rolling and excited tune that made Mariana want to dance.

 

_There is, a house, in New Orleans_

_(oh)_

_They call it the rising sun!_

_And it's been the ruin of many a poor girl_

_oh_

_oh and me_

_oh Lord_

_I'm one._

 

Veronique grabbed her elbow and jerked her to the side, around a towering man with massive shoulders, so she could finally see the band in the corner, accompanied by a man and a woman. The man had burnished skin and dark curly hair, while the woman was pale, with downy brown hair that looked soft as kitten fur.

They finished their song to bellows and applause and bowed. Mariana guessed the woman couldn't be much older than twenty, still a girl, and the man roughly Percival's age. “That's Dorian Faust,” Veronique said into her ear. “Acts a bit of a bodyguard to Madame Rawley every now and then, but mostly he sings, he's got a voice like caramel. And that girl is Geneva, Madame Rawley's eldest daughter. Usually when she's not schooling she's out in the bayou with the other two kids, but she's here for the New Year's celebrations.”

Mariana watched with interest as the band struck up again and Geneva started to sing, alone this time. Dorian, catching Veronique's eye, headed straight for them.

“Ronny,” he said, kissing her cheeks. “Thought I saw your beady eyes flashing in the crowd.”

“You slay me, Dorian,” was her dry response. “This is Mariana Moon, I'm just showing her around. What're you doing here?”

“Singing.”

“Oh yes?” Veronique raised a thin eyebrow. “Not babysitting?”

Dorian shrugged. “It's a big, bad city, and Madame Rawley is more than happy to let Geneva see it – within reason, of course.” That being said, after kissing Mariana's hand in polite hello, he excused himself. As quickly as he was there, he was gone.

“Not much need for him here,” Veronique said, as an aside, as they fought their way towards the bar. “Ain't nobody stupid enough to make a move against the Rawley clan. It's more the No-Maj's we're concerned with. Geneva has scars all up her arms, they tried to beat the magic out of her before she was taken to Lady Talon's Home for Lost Souls.”

The look on Mariana's face was real; Tina just thought about poor, sweet Credence, beaten by his adopted mother. Terrified out of his wits, hating himself, unable to cope with the power he was bottling up inside. And her own anguish, when he was blasted apart.

A touch on her arm brought her back to the present. Credence was gone, and now there were only the pieces to pick up. “You okay, Ana?” Veronique asked, softly.

Mariana closed her eyes and shook her head. “I was in New York when it happened,” she said, softly. “The obscurial. They killed him... that poor boy. The No-Majs made him and then MACUSA killed him, to protect _them_. And he tried to stop them, to help-” and then she cut off, as if aware of what she was saying.

The dark-eyed witch gave her a careful look. “Who tried to help?”

“I need a gin,” Mariana said, instead, and Veronique nodded.

“Let's get one, then.”

At one point Percival was back, wrapping his arms around her, warm and sturdy and strong. But her responding touches were absent-minded, and so when he left her again for, she supposed, better company, Veronique took her hand and led her towards the back of the club.

No, not the back of the club, but the actual back door, leading out into the alley. It was far from silent out there, with the wild night life of New Orleans going on all around them, but the alley itself was deserted and after the press of so many people the air seemed chill and fresh for once.

The alley was narrow, barely wide enough for the two women to walk abreast. Veronique let go and took a few steps forward, as if she were about to walk off down the alley, but then she stopped, her back to Mariana. Her black dress shifted in a magical wind. “Why did you come to New Orleans, Mariana?” she asked, voice level. “And why did you bring Percival Graves?”

Mariana stared hard at the woman's back. So many different possibilities flashed through her mind: Veronique was an undercover Auror. A supporter of Grindelwald. An undercover Auror _and_ a supporter of Grindelwald. Or just a woman trying to help another, perhaps?

She thought about something Percival wrote in the diary, during those first days where he was coaching her.

_I got this far because I took risks. I like to think that all of them were necessary._

“I came looking for friends,” Mariana said, at last. “I have already found my beliefs – or at least, they've found me. I helped a great man escape custody, and then I came here to further my – our – work.”

“And Graves?”

“Every day he gets closer,” Mariana replied, her voice smoothing down into a purr. “Every day... he wonders what he's been doing. But I have him, whether he comes to our side or not, he's mine. Gellert kept him around for a purpose, and I am keeping him safe until I am told he is no longer useful.”

“I've been wondering,” Finally Veronique turned on her heel, looking behind her to make eye contact. “wondering how much you knew. Wondering if you're just a clever woman taking advantage of a broken man, or if there was more to you than that. I saw it in your eyes, though, I saw the pain over that poor obscurial. If the No-Majs twist our children into destructive forces, is it not the natural way of things to allow those forces to wreak havoc upon their creators? When a witch creates a spell too powerful to wield, is it not justice when it strikes her down? Power is a vicious thing, and we have given too much of it to the No-Majs. The flaming sword that has no care what it cuts.”

Mariana stepped forward, reaching out and touching the other woman's shoulder. “I know,” she whispered, fiercely. “I saw his work. But no matter how hard we tried we could not save the child. But I will save other children, Veronique. I'm not yet done and neither is he.”

Veronique shook her head, clasping Mariana's hands in hers. “I can't help you, Ana,” she said, softly, regretfully. “I am not that type of person. I will not start a war. It is not the time. But,” she added, holding up a finger to silence Mariana's retort, “I can send you in the right direction.”

She shifted aside her skirt and slid her wand out of the hidden pocket, then looking at the wall of the next building, looming close in the darkness, she raised her wand before her. Slowly, she looped her wand in the air, trailing a thin, burning line, like heated metal. A circle, surrounded by a triangle, and then a single line through the middle. It was the same symbol they had found on Grindelwald after arresting him, in the form of a simple silver charm.

Veronique put her wand away and pressed her hand to the middle of the fiery symbol. “For the greater good,” she said, and pushed outward. It flew back and collided with the wall, burning ferociously for a moment. It made a noise that Mariana could only describe as a great vacuum of silence, before it flickered out.

It was dark again.

Then, like candles flaring to life, small spots of orange light appeared down the alleyway. Smaller versions of the symbol, she supposed. “Follow them,” she said, turning back towards the door to the club. “They will take you where you seek. Tell them I sent you.”

“Veronique... Thank you.”

“I'll distract Graves for you,” she added, slipping back inside and shutting the door.

With that, Tina was left alone, quite suddenly unable to get Percival for backup. “Shit,” she said. She hoped this was one of those necessary risks he had been talking about.

 

The symbols took her through alleyways and side streets, some of them not properly paved, forcing her to hop through puddles or carefully circumnavigate spots of uneven, muddy ground. Every time she passed a symbol marker it flickered out, erasing the way she had come.

While she walked, she tried to keep her nerves steady by simply thinking, but even that might be wrong of her, she realized. _Learn to trust your instincts,_ Percival had written to her, one evening. _If you can't trust yourself in this business, then you will have no one to turn to._

The man really ought to write a book, or at least do a few seminars. It still confounded and amazed her that she was there, working with him, undergoing something close to tutelage.

He was right, though; her training had prepared her for this type of thing, and so she would rely on it and herself. They had planned to stick together and had not brought the diaries, so there was no way to get a message to him privately. Though Veronique's behaviour might seem suspicious to Percival, it was unlikely she was going to deal with him herself – more likely she would have Tobias keep him busy. In any case, Mariana could not leave a trail for him to follow, that would be too dangerous and possibly blow her cover. She would have to go it alone, but keep the visit brief so she could get back to the party in decent time.

As she came to this conclusion, the trail ended. She was standing at a rather unremarkable side door to an even more unremarkable building sandwiched between more buildings, papered with posters and advertisements that were peeling from the humidity. There was also no door handle, and pushing against it proved fruitless.

If there was a special knock, surely Veronique would have told her; any old knock would do to get someone to answer the door. But she didn't want to do that just yet; she wanted to try something first. She drew out her wand and, concentrating, drew the three-lined symbol on the scuffed surface of the door, her lines glowing fiery and green. Then she put her hand against the door and pushed.

It opened.

Victorious but cautious, Tina stepped inside.

It was warm and musty, smelling like dust and mould. She was at the top of a narrow flight of stairs, leading down into a dimly lit room. The noise of men chatting and laughing drifted up to her, but there was no music, no displays of frivolity. A private room, not a public establishment. Steeling herself, Mariana descended.

As soon as she saw the room below, everything made sense. A group of four wizards sat at a round table, playing a card game. The middle of the table was piled with swag – money, both wizarding and No-Maj, watches, jewellery. Cigars burned. Beyond them was an open door, revealing an office with a large desk.

They emanated a sort of low-level danger. All but one had their suit jackets shucked off, and their shoulder holsters for their wands cut grim lines against their vests and shirts.

“Evening, boys,” Mariana greeted, leaning one shoulder against the side of the stairwell, letting herself peek out from around a coat rack full of black coats.

The response was immediate: chairs pushed back, the table nearly upended. Suddenly four wands were pointing straight at her face, but Mariana didn't move a muscle beyond raising her eyebrows. “That's no way to greet a lady,” she said.

“Who the Hell are you?” one of them demanded.

“I'm Mariana,” she said. “Honestly, honey, a better question would have been to ask me what I'm doing here, seeing as how I got in without tripping any alarms, or knocking. I'm guessing your guests usually knock?”

One of the men hadn't gotten up. Lowering his wand, he slowly got to his feet; the scrape of the chair legs on the wooden floor made her want to flinch, but she didn't. He had a narrow face, delineated by a scar running down his cheek. Unusually he had a thin, perfectly tailored pencil moustache instead of being completely clean shaven. “What can we do for you, ma'am?” he asked, politely. “My boys 'n' I were just playing some cards. Are you lost?”

“Only if none of you here are in charge,” she replied, archly. “But I guess you are. Veronique sent me your way. She says we have some things in common.”

The tension in the room was still high, but at least he waved his hand and, somewhat grudgingly, the rest of the men lowered their wands. “Gossamy,” he introduced. “At your service.”

“Like I said, I'm Mariana,” she said. “I've recently come from New York.”

“Yeah, I thought I recognized you,” he said. “Seen you around. Been wondering if you'd find us. Come in, make yourself at home.”

Mariana stepped further into the room, but she gave a shake of her head. “Unfortunately, I've just left another engagement, and need to be back soon,” she said, knowing full well this man would understand the double meaning in her words – she would not linger, and if anything were to happen to her, people would notice. “I was just hoping to touch base. Perhaps make a friend.”

“I see,” Gossamy said. He looked around at his men, who all looked back at him expectantly. “Hrm. Pals, why don't you make yourself scarce? Come back in an hour.”

“But boss-”

He silenced the protest with an angry wave of his hand. “None of that, Stephen,” he said, roughly. “I know this dame – yeah, she's the one been toting Percival Graves around like a kite. She's a pal of Grindelwald's, no mistake. Now how comfortable do you think a woman is gonna be, in a room by herself with four men?”

“So?” his companion argued. “Who cares?”

“You wanna piss off Grindelwald's woman?” Gossamy asked, irritated.

“No, but-”

“And if you think I can't hold my own against a lady, well, you can just scram.”

Grumbling, the three men tucked away their wands and grabbed up their jackets. “Just don't look at our cards, yeah?” one of the men joked, and Gossamy chuckled.

“Go on, get out. We'll pick this up in an hour. That long enough for you, ma'am?” Mariana nodded. “Good. Come on over to the office.”

He drew out his wand and she watched, puzzled, as he set it on a small wooden table, its surface riddled with grooves to hold wands in place. “No wands in the office,” he explained. “We do it as a sign of trust.”

Not wanting to but without any choice, Mariana pulled up her skirt. She watched Gossamy take in the sight of her leg while she slowly drew her wand out from her garter, and placed it on the table. “After you,” she said, smoothing down her skirts, startling him back into the present.

“Of course,” he said, and led the way into the office.

It was a big room for an office, but mostly taken up by the large wooden desk, scuffed and gleaming in the magical lantern light. It had shifted a few times, she noted the scratches on the wooden floor, so it was lighter than it looked. Mariana took a seat across from Gossamy, who settled into his chair with the air of a man who was used to being there, but would much rather be out on the streets, or finishing his poker game.

“So,” he said. “You wanted to make friends, you said.”

“I do.” She lounged back in her chair, making herself very, very comfortable. “I had some pretty good friends, back in New York.”

“Not so much any longer.”

She bent her head forward in agreement. “Unfortunately. MACUSA cleaned up pretty quickly, while they could.”

“Why not you?”

A grin cracked her face. “You're kidding me, right?” she said. “You see who I'm stepping out with, lately?”

“I hear he's not too welcome at MACUSA these days.”

“Oh, they'll take him back, if I let them,” she said, inspecting her nails. “But you're right. He's been keeping me under wraps, though. I asked him to. But now that I'm here,” she waved her hand, meaning to take in the entire city of New Orleans with that one motion, “I can start having a little fun. And get a bit of work done, too.”

Gossamy laughed. “I see what Grindelwald likes about you,” he said. “Now, ma'am, I mean no offence, but this is my operation. Well, it belonged to Dmitri Jos, but he went and got himself blown up, so I took over. So if you're expecting me to step down, you've got another thing coming.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” Mariana promised, pressing her hand to her chest. “I'm just here to help. I've got information on what Grindelwald was doing in New York.”

“And Percival Graves.”

“Him, too,” she said.

“He finish what he started with him?”

She would have to tread lightly, now, aware that while she had extensive knowledge courtesy of MACUSA and her own involvement in the event, she didn't know everything. She had been prepared to hint that Grindelwald had left some insurance in the form of Percival, but what if it was actually true? It was a thought that kept her awake some hours of the night as she remembered the last part of the President's letter to her. What if Percival was still being used? What if he was a weapon? Gossamy asking about something like that was not a good sign.

“Gellert never told me,” she said. A safe enough response. “He just wanted him kept close.”

“I thought he was crazy when he mentioned it to me,” Gossamy snorted. “He was going to stick around and look here, that's when he told me.”

So Grindelwald had been here, perhaps planning on targeting someone else in MACUSA who could grant him access to the information he wanted, before he ended up in New York and wearing Percival's face. Perhaps she could figure out who it was here, discover if they were still in danger or not and prevent what happened to Percival happening to anyone else.

She tucked it away for future consideration. For now she had to gather as much knowledge as she could. Her information was running out; she had to make it all up, hope she could pass it off as the intuition of a lover if she was wrong. “He liked the magic here,” she shrugged. “He said I should always move on to New Orleans if things went bad. That's why I came. And that's why I brought Graves.”

Gossamy nodded. “I figured as much,” he said. “We might as well see if Grindelwald had time to finish or not. Not sure if the package has anything to do with it, though, maybe you can enlighten me.”

“Package?”

“Arrived just before all Hell broke loose in New York. I went to help but as you know, I was too late – I turned around and came back when I heard the news and there it was, waiting for me. Let me fetch it.”

He got to his feet and strode out of the office and back into the main room. Mariana stood up and went to the doorway to watch, under the pretence of curiosity; mostly she was going to make sure that when he came back inside of the office, he wasn't going to pocket his wand on the way in.

He stood at the east wall of the room, and passed his hand lightly over it. At his touch she heard several clicks of locks unlocking, and a cabinet-like panel materialized in the wall, and he opened it.

Over his shoulder she was able to glimpse an array of objects – some books, scrolls, a chalice. But he closed it before she could get a good look, and as he came back she noticed him holding an object, no bigger than a shoe, wrapped in what looked like the fabric of a pillowcase, tied with string.

“Here we are,” Gossamy said, as he settled behind his desk again. He picked up a delicate silver knife that was laying by his quill and ink pot, which he probably used as a letter opener, and slit the string holding the bundle together. Mariana sat as well and leaned close, not needing to fake her interest as he unwrapped it. “Bit of a shock when I got it. Maybe he knew what was going to happen? Well, here it is, all in one piece.”

As the last of the cloth was pulled back, Tina's blood ran cold.

How surreal that just that afternoon she had been talking to Veronique about this very thing. It was sewn out of what looked to be soft black cloth, in a vaguely human shape – the round bulbous head, nubby arms and legs. It was a naked-looking, wretched thing, with cross-stitched eyes and a thin line for a mouth, marked in red thread. On what would be its chest was a single, shining button, which she recognized immediately as the same kind of button that adorned one of Percival's favourite suits.

She hoped she wasn't pale, or if so that her rouge disguised it, and picked the doll up with a surety she absolutely did not feel. “Ah, so that's where that went,” she said, lightly. It sagged in her hands; it felt like it was full of some kind of sand.

“Is it for who I think?”

“You mean Graves?” she said, coolly. “Of course. It's got a good medley in here – his hair, blood, that kind of thing.”

“You're sure? Grindelwald didn't make any others?”

“He did, but this one is Graves,” Mariana said, tapping her fingernail against the button. She tried to handle the doll as if she couldn't give a damn about it, but it was difficult. “See this button? It's from one of his jackets.”

The expression on Gossamy's face was so gleeful it made her feel sick, but she just smiled back at him. “ _Excellent_ news,” he said. “I've been wanting to get that bastard back for ages. You know he shut my gambling racket down four years ago? Lost a lot of money. Now's the time to even the score.”

She didn't think that, even if she'd known what he was going to do next, she would have been able to stop herself. But when his hand reached out for the doll, Tina's hands flinched back, taking it out of reach.

“Hold on, there,” she said, coolly, desperately trying to calm herself down. “This isn't for you to play with or use to get even.”

“Like Hell it's not! Remember what I said, ma'am, you ain't in charge here.”

“And I respect that,” she retorted. “But this is for safe-keeping, not a toy to heal your bruised ego.”

“You want to keep Graves _safe_?”

“I want to _use_ him,” Mariana stated. “This doll is part of that. Gellert's plans for Percival Graves aren't over.”

Gossamy was still glaring at her, but she could see him relent. “If that's true,” he said. “Why did he send it to me?”

“So I could get it from you, obviously. MACUSA sacked Graves' place the minute Gellert was taken.”

He sighed, looking irritated but, at least, cooperative. “Alright, fine,” he said. “Give it here, I'll keep it safe.”

Everything in Tina shouted, screamed, begged her not to do it. But the cold voice in her mind said _I have to_ and, with a charming smile, she handed the doll back to Gossamy. He took it and opened a drawer in his desk, tucking it away.

“I suppose you'll want to get back to your game,” Mariana said, conversationally, glancing over her shoulder; that's when she remembered that the doll went into the wall cabinet, _not_ the desk, and she snapped her head around, but too late – there was a wand pointing straight at her.

Gossamy was leaning forward, elbow on the desk, holding the wand like a No-Maj pointed a gun: with intent. “It's not mine,” he said, watching her gaze focus on the wand. “Took it off of some drunk foreigner about a year back. Handy to have an extra one around.”

She leaned forward, slightly, disregarding the fact it brought her closer to danger. If he hit her with a spell, she'd be blasted regardless of her being a few inches closer or farther away. “What gave me away?” she asked, quietly.

He chuckled. “Don't feel bad, doll,” he said. “You were perfect; they must train you pretty well upstate. It's only that I realize now where I recognized you. It's not from Flight Street. No, I _saw_ you, when I went to New York to give Grindelwald some back up. I was too late, but I saw you.”

“Oh, I see. Didn't want to admit you saw it going downhill and ran like a coward?” she asked, acidly.

His jaw tightened. “Careful. You may be a woman, but you're still MACUSA.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And I suppose you'll jog everyone else's memories, too?”

“Honey, I was the only one who knew what was happening, so I was the only one who went,” he boasted. Then, a second later, clarity came to his eyes, and he laughed at her. “Oh, what, trying to trick me into giving away if anyone else saw you? Ain't gonna do you any good, you're not leaving here in one piece.”

“So you're the only one from New Orleans who was there?”

“You heard ri-”

Tina gripped the edge of the desk and pulled it upward.

It was too heavy for her to flip, but she succeeded in throwing it high enough to jog Gossamy's elbow. He didn't let go of the wand but it did throw him off, and the spell he fired missed her by two feet. She knew if she went to try to get her wand he would just blast her in the back – so instead she swiped her hand across the desk, grabbing up the silver knife, and slashed at Gossamy's face.

He jerked backward, barely missing the blade, and overbalanced in his chair. She shoved the desk at him, using the momentum to push herself away in the process, and scrambled for the door.

In the end it was her heels that tripped her but, ultimately, saved her – she crashed forward onto the ground, slamming her chin, but felt the heat on her back as a stream of fire shot out above her, where she had been standing moments before. She scrabbled forward, breaking a few nails in the process, and got to her feet, reaching out to grab her wand just outside the doorway.

A hairsbreadth away from touching it, he tackled her to the ground.

The knife skittered along the ground and so Tina jerked onto her back and shot her hand upward, the heel of her palm slamming into the soft part of Gossamy's nose. He howled in pain but didn't let go of her, which was good – harder for him to turn the wand against her in such close quarters.

She twisted, their wrestling bodies overturning the card table, and oddly enough her mind flashed back to when she was younger, wrestling with Queenie. Tina had always won.

 _Win now_.

She got one of her elbows up, trying to force it against his neck, but he slammed his own arm down to parry. Then Tina twisted and struck, and Gossamy's right arm flew wide and so did his wand, colliding with the far wall.

Her sense of victory was short-lived, because instead of getting up to run to his wand, Gossamy simply grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her back against the ground.

“Should've known,” he ground out. “You're too fucking ugly to be anyone's girl. I'll make sure no one makes that mistake again.” And he punched her.

It was a vicious blow, snapping her head to the side, lights exploding in her eyes. She barely had her senses together before he struck her again. By the third punch, Tina could barely remember how she ended up on the floor.

A glitter of silver caught her eye. _Fight! He will_ kill _you!_

His fist descended for another blow. It was like time slowed down.

Faster than a striking snake, Tina punched him in the throat, twisted about, kneed him in the kidney, pushed him away, and rolled out from under him.

His grunts of surprise and pain were distant in her ears as she began to crawl back towards the office door, to the table where her wand was waiting, but she knew she didn't have enough time unless she ran, even though getting up off the floor would take its own time. She reached the silver knife and wrapped her fingers around it while she pushed herself up, got her knees up and her feet beneath her, and stood.

Then he was there at her back and she knew he had decided to go for her with his bare hands instead of try to get his wand. It happened so fast but Tina was moving on adrenaline and instinct as she turned on her heel and tried to absorb his tackle with her shoulder.

He still brought her down, landing squarely on top of her, the breath slammed out of her lungs. She couldn't breathe. But what she felt more clearly than her elbow knocking against the ground, or the screaming in her joints, was the faint resistance as the tip of the knife pushed against Gossamy's body, and then punctured cloth and skin and muscle in one smooth thrust. She felt the hot blood on her hands. Revulsion ripped through her and she shoved at Gossamy, trying to get him off of her.

He rolled off with a gasp, onto his hands and knees, and she scrambled up to her face, breathing hard, staring down at the back of his neck.

“You stabbed me,” he said, craning his head back and glaring up at her with accusing eyes, set deep into a pale face.

Tina's hand convulsed around the knife. “You shouldn't have pushed me,” she said. She wasn't entirely sure what she meant by that.

Her mouth tasted like blood. From the pain all over her face she couldn't tell if it was from a cut lip or if maybe the inside of her cheek at split itself against her teeth when he'd punched her. Either way, the taste of iron was curiously grounding.

She couldn't heal him; she didn't know the right spells to stitch him together, that wasn't her area of expertise. Would she have enough time to get Percival and bring him back to help? If Percival even knew how to do such spells? Neither of them were medics.

She couldn't leave him there, though, or call for help. If he was rescued he would blow her cover. If she Obliviated him and a medic (if she found one), she would also need to track down the other three wizards and Obliviate them too – and when she checked the clock, she saw she didn't have enough time to get Percival for that either. Her hour with Gossamy was almost up, and the other three would be returning. If they came back to an empty, bloody room...

She looked down at him, at the blood that was now on the floor, then walked over to where his wand was and kicked it further away, out of his reach. There was blood, so much blood. Tina had seen dead bodies before, but this man was alive... and even in corpses she had never seen so much red...

What now? Even if she got him to a hospital, even if it was a No-Maj one, that was a nightmare of memory charms all by themselves. Even if she managed everything – getting him to a doctor, wiping the memories of all involved, that would still be the end. They'd know the boss had been hurt somehow, they'd find blood somewhere, the voodoo doll missing, _he had a stomach wound_ , they would correctly draw the assumption they had been attacked. And they would move their base of operations, melt into the night, too untrustworthy to let a stranger into their fold again.

She closed her eyes and shook her head. It was over.

“Tell me,” she demanded. “What did Grindelwald do to Graves before he got caught? Or to anyone else?”

He laughed at her, a wet and sticky sound that raised the hair on the back of her neck. “'M sayin' nothing,” he gasped, and she knew it was the truth, that she would not get any more information from him. She hissed. There was no time – her stomach roiled at the thought – for torture of any kind, magical or physical.

She turned on her heel and went back into the office, opening all of the drawers one by one until she found what she was looking for. With shaky hands she picked up the voodoo doll. She stared at it and understood what she had to do. To protect her job. To protect Percival Graves. She breathed deep, in through her nostrils, out through her mouth, and her hands stilled.

She tucked the doll into her garter, then retrieved her wand from where it sat unused and tucked it next to the doll. _Do it_ _now_ , she thought to herself, and Tina was chilled to finally realize that was her own voice, speaking so coldly. Not a devil on her shoulder, or even the smooth, competent voice of Percival. Her own.

She picked up the knife again.

“Get away from me, bitch,” he spat, and began to writhe on the floor, trying to crawl away from her. It was pathetic. “Get back!”

“Words won't help you anymore,” she remarked, softly. She watched the undulation of his back as he dragged himself away, leaving a smear of blood on panelled floor. “I'm sorry. But this will be quicker than bleeding out through your stomach.” She bent and gripped a handful of his hair, jerking his head back, and sawed across his exposed throat.

She looked up, away from him, though she gripped him tight as he writhed, felt more blood on her hands. She noticed along the wall several long lines of blue and green, in a strange, twisting symbol. Someone had taken chalk and drawn stars on it, as well, with no thought or pattern. With a sense of calm she found herself flicking through her memory, trying to figure out why it was so familiar.

Ah, that's it. It was a magical map of New Orleans; populated areas were marked in the chalk. She would have to come back and look at it again later, though, for now she hadn't the time.

_Move quickly._

Dropping the knife and the lifelessly body, Tina hunted around the room before coming up with the piece of chalk she knew had to be around somewhere – the same used to write on the wall. She knelt down next to Gossamy, and in smooth, sure strokes, drew a circle, and then a triangle, and then a vertical line. Beneath it she scrawled out _TRAITOR_.

 _I am Mariana Moon_ , Tina told herself, as she worked . _Lover of Gellert Grindelwald, freedom fighter for all of wizardkind._ _I will kill anyone who stands in my way, wizard or No-Maj. I will do it with my own two hands if I must, and everyone who is anyone will know, and be afraid, and rally to me._

 _I am Tina Goldstein,_ Tina reminded herself. _I have a little sister named Queenie. I will do whatever I can to make this world safe for her. I will do whatever I can to protect her, and poor children like Credence._

And Percival Graves?

_I will keep him safe, too, as Madame President has asked._

Her head was swimming. Was she drunk? She looked down at the bloody body and noticed that blood, too, had gotten onto her dress, and was drying on her hands, sticky and black underneath her fingernails. A wave of nausea besieged her but she fought it back.

She wanted to look around the office, find out what she could, but her hands were bloody and she would leave marks everywhere, more than she already had. Grindelwald supporters would, with luck, find Gossamy first, and would scrub away the symbol, but even if No-Maj police found it, it didn't matter; it would lead them nowhere and would simply feed the fuel that Mariana was a representative of Grindelwald, who didn't care about the Statute of Secrecy.

Tina knew for a fact that MACUSA could not get officially involved in what was, for all appearances, a No-Maj murder, even if the victim was a wizard. It just looked like Gossamy had been interfering illegally with criminal No-Majs and had been taken out, because who heard of witches or wizards killing without magic? They weren't that barbaric. Gossamy would be gone, and now there was a hole in the hierarchy for Mariana Moon to fill.

She felt numb. She reached under her skirt again, to her garter, where the doll was safely hidden. She would not show Graves, not yet. But she would keep it safe.

At the door she took one of the men's coats that had been abandoned there on the coat rack, wrapping it around her bloodied body. She knelt and picked up the spare wand Gossamy had used against her – it would come in handy. For some reason, before going up the stairs and back the way she came, she also paused to pocket the knife, sticky with blood.

At the top of the steps Tina Goldstein walked out into the night, down the alleyway, letting the darkness eat her up. When she was far enough away, she Disapparated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian Faust is another of those OC's where I have a clear picture of how he looks - and sounds. Oscar Isaac, yo. So pretty. So sing-y. If things go as planned you'll see more of him and the Rawley Clan, but things get pretty topsy turvy from here so I can't be sure just yet.
> 
> Oh and yeah Tina totally just killed someone with her bare hands. Congrats, Gossamy! You're the first sucker in this story to bite the dust. You won't be the last, though.


	7. drifting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could talk her through it, help her to understand, let her mind take its wandering trudge back to where it was settled and sane again. But it was not, strictly speaking, his job to try to make her feel better. That was her issue, and hers alone.  
> So why wasn't he leaving?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another longer chapter than the usual ones, this time from Percival's POV. Hold onto your hats, shippers.

He hadn't seen her in two hours. Not such a long time in a party as rollicking as this one, but he was tipped off when he caught site of Veronique and Kate several times, separately, and did not glance Mariana at all. He could search high and low for her, but there was no need. His instincts told him the truth: Tina was gone. Officially, she was now missing.

Asking around did nothing. The general consensus had seemed to be he had bored her (a believable excuse, had anyone seen her ignoring him all night) and had decided to sneak off. No matter how irritable he became, though, no one offered up any information, which meant they probably had none.

Only Veronique looked somewhat shifty, but Tobias wouldn't allow him to interrogate her. So Percival had been left to interrupt Kate, who had been energetically kissing a young witch on a couch when he showed up.

“Sorry to interrupt the petting,” he said, dryly, “but have you seen Mariana?”

Kate glared, pulling her fingers through her hair to bring it into some semblance of order. “Not for an age,” she said. “If she's off kissing someone else, I suggest you interrupt _them_ and leave us be.”

“I'm reporting you to your boss.”

“Ugh.”

As nonchalant as Percival tried to be, he was in actuality doing his very best to keep calm. There was no knowing where Tina would have gone – she would not have gone off without warning him unless there was a very good reason she couldn't. That meant she had either left on her own power, or had been taken. The former was the better option, obviously, but the latter possibility gave him little to work with. But no one had seen anything; they hadn't even seen her gallivanting off. That hinted that she had snuck off herself, which had to be a good sign.

In any case, she was no longer at the party and there were no signs of her, so he no longer had any reason to be there. The best thing he could think of to do was go through all of the spots they had been to before. If Tina had been forced to leave but of her own will, it stood to reason she would return to her hotel room. If not, then his apartments, or the cafes, or The Grinning Goblin – anywhere he could find her. If not, hopefully she would have left a trace for him to follow.

By the time he excused himself from the party and was Apparating to the hotel, Percival Graves had managed to kick himself into high fuss mode. As soon as he arrived he noticed the lights were on, so someone had been there; but then his gaze focused on a bundle of cloth on the floor. Stepping towards it and picking it up, the scent of another man assaulted his nose as he realized it was definitely got a coat belonging to either himself or Goldstein.

His head snapped around, searching the room, and he noticed the bathroom door. There was a bloody hand print on the eggshell white paint.

Dropping the coat, Percival sprinted over and shouldered the door open, so hard it knocked against the side wall with a loud, ringing bang.

It was humid and damp in the room, and the smell of blood was competing with the scent of roses. He stopped short in his charge, feeling startled and – oh Merlin – completely ridiculous.

“Maybe knock next time,” Tina said, softly. She was sitting in the bathtub, water up to her shoulders. Her head was bowed forward and all he saw was the curly mass of her hair, face hidden.

Percival took a step back, and then a step forward, unsure of how to proceed. 'Firsts' were rare in his career these days, but this was certainly one of them. He settled with looking at the far wall.

“Tina,” he demanded. “What happened to you? Where did this blood come from? Are you hurt?”

“Don't worry, it's not mine,” she said, scrubbing at her face with her hands. The water was a sickly, murky reddish colour. He saw now her clothes in a bloody pile in the corner of the room. The only thing she wore was the halo of flowers curled in her hair, glimmering, oddly delicate and beautiful. “I killed someone. Self defence.”

Urgency flared within Percival and he couldn't believe that Tina was telling him this, so calmly and sluggishly, like it didn't matter. “Where?” he snapped, stomping forward, stopping a foot away from the tub. “Damn it, Tina, we have to clean the scene!” They wouldn't be able to get rid of magical traces, but they could at least muddle everything enough that they wouldn't have New Orleans' Aurors on their trail, creating a jurisdictional nightmare. Even so it would be tricky to do. Seraphina was going to be furious-

Tina hunched her shoulders, refusing to look at him. “It's clean.”

“How?” he demanded. She wasn't supposed to know the spells for that, they were only taught to Senior Aurors – maybe she'd tried to get ahead in secret? But who would have broken regulations to teach her?

Instead of answering, she started moving her hands around in the water, as if she were looking for something – and Percival reminded himself that though this was possibly a matter of national security, he was a goddamn gentleman, and averted his eyes again. He wasn't entirely sure if he could see any of her body through the murky water, but he was respectful enough to not check.

“Here,” she said. He looked down again.

She was holding out a thin silver dagger. Water dripped from her arm and onto the floor. “What's this?” he said. “Tina, you're not making any sense.”

“It's the murder weapon,” she said.

He stared at it.

“Please take it,” she said, an edge to her voice, so he did.

“Tina,” he said, slowly. “Did you-”

“Could you go get me something to drink, please?” And now her voice was definitely beginning to fray. The last thing he wanted was an hysterical Tina, _especially_ when she was submerged in a bloodstained bath, so he immediately backtracked, heading out of the bedroom and shutting the bathroom door. He stared again at the bloody hand print, then shook his head, inspecting the knife. That gave him something to do, to distract him for a moment from the situation.

It was a delicately wrought item, with a dancing, snakelike pattern along the blade. The handle was shaped like the tail of a fish. A mermaid, perhaps. It was wet from the bath water, so he wiped it absently on his waistcoat, and placed it on a side table.

“I'll be right back, Tina,” he called, figuring he ought to let her know his comings and goings, especially if she was upset. She made a muffled noise in response, and he heard the sound of her draining her bath water.

He Apparated into his own private rooms, going to his coat, which he had left hanging in the closet – there wasn't much use for it in the New Orleans climate, so he had emptied the pockets. Mostly. He reached in and brought out a bottle of bourbon, nearly full. He hadn't had much time for drinking since arriving, but he assumed now would be a good time – he was convinced bourbon had medicinal properties.

By the time he got back, Tina was filling the tub again; he could hear the rush of water. He wondered how much blood there had been – a lot, if she needed a second rinse, or maybe she just felt unclean. He retrieved a crystal glass from the side bar as he passed and filled it with a generous splash of bourbon; then picking up it and the bottle, went over to rap his knuckles on the bathroom door. “Tina,” he called, gently.

The tap was shut off, abruptly. “You can come in,” she answered.

When he opened the door he saw that she had pulled a dressing screen in front of the tub, blocking her from view. It was an ornate item, carved from wood in patterns of leaves and vines. He walked up to it and stuck one arm around the corner, holding out the glass, and waited for her to take it.

He felt her fingers, warm and shaky. “Thank you,” she said.

The scent of blood was gone, the soiled clothes moved out of sight. The bathroom just smelt like roses, now. “Will you tell me what happened?” he asked.

“I will soon. But please, just let me sit.”

“I just need to know,” he urged. “Is everything under control? The scene is secure? We're not in danger?”

“I took care of it.”

“Alright.” He turned and began to leave, but her voice stopped him.

“You don't believe me?”

“Of course I believe you,” he said, startled. “I'm just trying to give you some privacy. I was upset, but I shouldn't have shouted at you, or barged in like that, Tina. It was uncalled for and inappropriate.”

“You were worried I made a mistake. It's fine.”

“I should have known that if you had, you'd have come to me.”

She laughed. Or maybe it was a sob. Hard to tell without being able to see her. He stood there uncertainly for a moment before, again, attempting to leave, though he stepped back quietly, trying not to disturb her.

When she spoke again she sounded – exasperated? “What are you _doing_?” she asked.

“Giving you privacy. Like I said.”

“Hells,” she swore. “Do I have to _say_ it? I put the screen up for a reason. Please, I don't want to be left alone right now. Could you just sit?”

Percival blinked and stared at the screen. It was the kind of item that only concealed up to an extent – with small holes and gaps carved into the design, where one might see a peek of flesh. For decent company it was suitable, for indecent company it was not the most trustworthy of items.

He liked to think of himself as decent, though, and anyway he'd managed to keep his eyes securely on her hands or floor or wall back when the screen had been absent. He waved his hand, pulling a chair in close, next to the screen. A second glass floated in from the bar, and he took it from midair as he sat. “Then I'll be your drinking companion,” he said.

“Thank you,” she replied. He heard her take a generous mouthful of bourbon, and cough. “Ow.”

That caught his attention. “Ow?” he repeated.

Silence. “I hurt my lip,” she said. “I'm not very good at healing spells. Queenie was always the one who patched me up.”

“I've got a hand for some First Aid, would you like me to look at it? Later,” he added.

“Yes, please.”

“Anything else?”

“No. I mean. Yes. I'm alright though.”

“I'll be the judge of that.”

“Hmph.”

Percival leaned back in his chair, pouring himself a helping of bourbon. There was only the sound of dripping water, the ripples every time Tina shifted. He closed his eyes and reminded himself that she was his responsibility, because he could already feel his mind beginning to wander – to the damp, glistening skin of her shoulders, her warm wet hands. Just pieces of a picture that his wandering thoughts started trying to fill in with their own imaginings – it was as if he had seen through the gaps in the dressing screen and was thinking about glancing around it (not that he ever would).

He was a steadfast bachelor nearing his forties, as well as her mentor and boss. He took a breath he sincerely hoped was not a sigh, and pressed a thumb to his temple, forcing himself to think about other things. The weather. Shoe polish. Quidditch.

_Don't be a fool, Percival._

He didn't know how long they were silent. It could have been a few minutes, or fifteen. Maybe longer. But then there were a few splashes as Tina moved about in the tub, and he looked up to see her hand sticking out from beyond the screen, holding the empty glass.

“Another?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “And I'm ready to tell you everything.”

“Let me get paper and a quill.”

“You want a report?”

The disbelief in her voice almost made him laugh. Was he really that sort of person? Probably. “No,” he said. “I'll enspell it to transcribe you. It will give us something to work with for now, so you won't have to worry about it again until this is all over.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you.”

First, he refilled her glass, almost up to the brim, then got to his feet, leaving the bathroom to search around the coffee table and writing desk. He found parchment, ink pot, and quill, and returned, setting himself back up in the chair again.

Taking his wand, he tapped it gently against the parchment, and then the quill, murmuring the spell under his breath. Then he let both items go, and both them and the ink pot drifted around the dressing screen, presumably hovering in front of Tina.

“That's a handy spell,” she said. The scratch of the quill sounded. “Oh, oops. Shit. I mean – damn it! Make it stop!”

“Maybe start from the beginning, Goldstein,” Percival said, dryly. He refreshed his glass. “If something's unclear, I'll ask for details. But for now the floor is yours.”

He could practically hear her gathering her thoughts together. “Of course, sir.” She took a deep breath, and a sip of her drink. “We'll start at the club. I guess everything began when Veronique went to show me around...”

 

As expected, she was incredibly thorough in her retelling, just as she was in her written reports to him. He asked her a question every now and then, for clarity, but for the most part she was the only one talking, her voice accompanied by the scratch of the quill.

Sometimes he wanted to speak to interrupt her, but made himself stay silent. He didn't tell her, but the transcription spell also had a mild lie detection spell woven in with it, that was just the way it had been created. He hadn't said anything, not because he didn't trust her, but because he felt like mentioning it would insult her, like he was warning her to tell the truth or else. From Tina, though, he expected nothing but the truth, and she was giving it to him.

It was almost unbelievable, though, which is why he had to stifle himself from verbally double-checking her statements.

“He wanted to hurt you,” she said, her voice sounding hollow, echoing off the walls of the bathroom. “I tried to play it off that I needed to use you later, and I think he bought it and we were going to go our separate ways – and then he recognized me.”

“Recognized you?”

“He was lying before, when he said he never made it to New York,” she said. “He had. He saw me. And he remembered.”

Again he wanted to stop her, to ask about it, but he made himself be quiet – and he was thankful he did, because when Tina continued on he understood she had covered her bases. Gossamy had been the only one to see her in New York.

It was almost lucky that that was how things played out, because Gossamy could have remembered at a different time later on, or she may not have been alone with him when he did. This way it came out in the open in private, and she had... dealt with it. Well, _he_ saw it as good fortune, though perhaps Tina had not sufficiently separated herself from the event to see it as such just yet.

 _Was it Mariana or Tina?_ He wondered. _Who dealt the fatal blow_? He would have to ask her, later, when she was calmer. Though her voice was even while she spoke, he suspected that that composure would not last for long. She had killed a man and while it had been in self defence, it had also been in cold blood. When it came to killing people, Percival knew it either got easier, or it didn't. For Tina, he sincerely hoped it would always be hard.

By the time she was finished, Percival went to refill her glass for the second time, almost in a congratulatory way. “So you have the extra wand?” he asked.

“Yes, I've locked it up. Did you want it?”

“Not now.” He rubbed at his eyes, sighing. “It's late. We'll make plans in the morning.”

“Ok. I'm turning into a raisin now anyway. Do you mind?”

“Right,” Percival said, getting to his feet, but grabbing the bourbon as well. “Going.”

“Not leaving, though?”

“No,” he said, firmly, glancing at the screen. She was getting out of the bath and he heard the slap of water, glimpsed flushed skin before averting his eyes. “Not leaving.”

He ordered up food. He knew she would probably try to refuse, but he was adamant that she at least get something in her stomach to go with the bourbon, and to calm her nerves somewhat. In a cold, distant way, he figured her breakdown would appear in the middle of the night, and she needed a settled stomach for that. He ordered up a bean and rice dish, and then some fresh beignets. If she would not take one, he could tempt her to take the other.

When the bathroom door opened and she walked out, Percival started. It was not the scent of roses, or the drape of her grown, which was thick and heavy, red and black and embroidered dragons, that surprised him. It was her face.

Over the past several days, he had started to harbour an appreciation for her face. Not the painted up one she wore when she was Mariana, but her real one, after she scrubbed all of the makeup off. She had a plain face, but pretty, not requiring anything extra – soft eyes, soft lips. Or maybe he just liked her mouth because when it moved it produced intelligent comments, or her eyes were deep, full of knowledge. He wasn't sure.

Now, though, one of those beautiful eyes was swollen shut. Over half of her face was puffy and purpling with shades of blue, and he wondered at how she could drink bourbon with her lip so split.

“Damn,” he exclaimed. “Tina. Your face.”

She grimaced, touching her cheek. “That bad?”

He didn't answer.

“I always expected you to have better conversational skills,” she said, dryly. “I don't know why. Maybe it's the way you dress.”

“My conversation skills are top par, Goldstein,” Percival huffed. “I just don't want to tell you the truth when the truth is rather unflattering. Come here and let me take a look at you.”

She walked over, joining him on the couch. Her chin looked quite bad, she might have chipped the bone, he thought. Without thinking about it he reached up and probed at it, and when she flinched he felt guilty. “Sorry.”

“It's fine,” she said, quickly. “You just surprised me.”

Remembering the fight she had described, he supposed it was not that much of a surprise her face looked the way it did. “I work better with my hands,” he said, holding them up. “Is that alright?”

She nodded, her eyes fluttering closed as he took her face in his hands.

He smoothed his thumbs gently over her cheeks and chin, pressing soft wisps of magic forward. He'd always had a hand for this sort of thing, to the point where his mother had been quite insistent he become a doctor before he struck out on the Auror's path. He watched as the purple and blue faded to an ugly yellow, and then finally to nothing at all. His fingertips brushing over her lip closed the cut, and a few gentle touches had her swollen eye opening. Soon it was nothing more than the shadow of a memory.

She sighed, relieved. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“Where else?” he asked. She gave him a look like she was pretending not to know what he was talking about, but he glared at her, and this time she sighed in annoyance.

“I slammed my elbows and my knees,” she admitted. He kept his expression neutral and his gaze disinterested as she pushed aside her robe and raised the hem of her nightgown to show him her knees. 'Slammed' was an understatement, the skin was torn up, but he had the tissue knitting together with a gentle graze of his palms. Her elbows, in a similar state, were equally patched up.

“You need to be more careful, Tina,” he said, in what he hoped was a joking manner. “If anything were to happen to you, your sister would kill me.”

She simply nodded. “Yes, she would,” Tina agreed, reaching up to her hair, beginning the process of untangling the flower headband. She grimaced and tugged at it, but appeared to be getting it loose. “She'd never say it like that, though. Queenie is very delicate with her words.”

“Not like you.”

“No.” Tina's smile was faintly victorious. “Not like me.”

 

He woke because the bed was shaking, and so were the lamps, the nightstands, even the cosmetic pots at the vanity.

Like the last few times Percival had stayed in her room, he took the right side of the bed while she took the left. He hadn't fallen asleep until he was certain that Tina had already done so, curled up in a ball, only her hair visible beneath the layers of covers. He didn't trust her to attempt sleep without supervision; he figured she was more likely to pace and worry and anxiously go over the day, when she greatly needed to rest.

Not that it would be at all restful.

He wasn't surprised at the fact she was having nightmares, but he _was_ startled at the magical kickback. He didn't realize Tina had that kind of power. It was the kind of focus and magic that didn't require a wand to harness it, and it was a rarity. Perhaps she just didn't know she had it.

He sat up in bed and reached over, grabbing her shoulder and giving her a shake. “Tina,” he urged, sincerely hoping he wasn't about to get hit with an accidental blast of magic, prepared to pull up a shield if need be. “Wake up. Tina!” He shook her again.

Her eyes snapped open, so wide he saw the whites clear around her irises. He jerked out of the way as she struck out, instinctively, her fist meeting only empty air.

Just as quickly, she seemed to come to, breathing hard, looking at him like she couldn't believe it. Maybe she had never wanted to punch him the way he assumed all of his employees wanted to do at some point, then. A shame, for a moment she had almost lived her coworkers' dreams.

She uncurled her fist and flexed her fingers, then pulled away, rolling to the side and stumbling off of the bed. Well, falling off, more like.

“It was just a nightmare,” he said, calmly, watching his Auror looking around, as if unable to focus on her surroundings.

“It was real.”

“It was only real once.”

She sank down to the ground, as if she couldn't bear to walk any further; he saw her knuckles, white, clutching at the fibres of the carpet beneath her. Her shuddering was so violent he could see it all the way from the bed.

“You should go. This isn't your responsibility,” she gasped. “I'm sorry, sir. I'll be better in the morning.”

She was right, and the understanding hit him like cold water. Making sure she was physically fit for duty, having her report to him, helping her keep her cover – that was just the job. But it was not his task to comfort Tina. Coach, yes, but not comfort. He could talk her through it, help her to understand, let her mind take its wandering trudge back to where it was settled and sane again. But it was not, strictly speaking, his job to try to make her feel better. That was her issue, and hers alone.

So why wasn't he leaving?

He moved over to her, crumpled on her knees, shaking. She was terrified; it radiated off of her like a physical thing. He had known this was coming, after how calm she had been; throttling down her physical reaction in the hopes that her emotional one would be brought to heel. A mistake made often by rookies and experienced Aurors alike. It always came back, when the walls were down – in sleep, in drunkenness, in quiet moments.

He touched her shoulder, and was rewarded at seeing she didn't flinch at the contact. “Tina,” he said, softly. “You need to get off the floor.”

She leaned forward, shaking her head, shoulders hunching up. “I can't,” she whispered. “I don't want to sleep. I see him...”

Percival knelt and wrapped his arms around her. She stilled, startled. “Come on,” he said, gently. “Get up.”

“You should go.”

“I will once you're back in bed.”

“No.”

“The couch, then.”

She shook her head but, grudgingly, he was able to coax her to her feet. It was unfortunate they didn't have any sleeping powders, but he would make do with the rest of the bourbon.

“Drink,” he said, holding the glass in front of her. Perhaps hoping he would be gone quicker, she took it and swigged it down, coughing only once, rubbing the tears that sprang to her eyes from the burn.

 _Now go, fool_.

He set the glass down on the coffee table, and sat next to her. She still shook, and he knew it had nothing to do with strength or weakness; when the terror seized you, only experience could shuck it away, and Tina had none. Even Percival had trouble, sometimes; in the days after his discovery and release from Grindelwald's clutches, he had felt a paranoia that clung doggedly to his soul wherever he went, to the point where he, decorated Auror that he was, had spent a week sleeping with the light in his bedroom on, terrified of the dark. He had had to talk to himself often, telling himself it was a natural reaction. It had made getting cleared by the doctors for active duty an even harder task than ever.

“I'm sorry, sir,” Tina said, again, burying her face in her hands, as if to hide her shame. “I should be stronger. I should be better for you; I will try to be better.”

“Tina,” he said, firmly enough that she glanced up at him. Her eyes were rimmed red. “When we are cut, we bleed. Over time we become harder to hurt, but that's all we can hope for. There is nothing else to expect. _Let yourself bleed_.”

She continued to shake. “You should go,” she whispered, again.

“Do you want me to go?” he asked. She bent her head, curling forward, practically burying her face into her knees. He understood. She was in shock, somewhat drunk, frightened and confused. He couldn't expect her to act anything but that, but he worried she was putting herself under strain, trying to control herself around him. Trying to meet expectations she imagined of him, which he didn't hold. If it was better he leave so she could let go, he would understand. “Tina,” he said, when she didn't answer. “You can tell me the truth. You can trust me with the truth, I swear it.”

“I'm frightened of being alone,” she said, softly. “I always had Queenie. I wish I had Queenie now.”

“I'll pour you another drink.”

“You have to drink with me,” she insisted, her voice just breaking into a sob at the end. “I don't want to be the only one.”

“I think we can finish off the bottle, together, don't you?”

“Will it interfere with the case?”

“We pretend to sleep in every day already.”

“Another drink, then.”

 

The bourbon was low, only a few inches from the bottom of the bottle. He had put his arm around her, allowed her to lean in to him. They spoke idly, mostly to fill up the silence; opinions on Quidditch, home improvement spells, whether house elves should be retained in America or if they were taking jobs away from witches and wizards who could use employment in the richer side of town. Her friend, Newton Scamander.

And, somehow, Percival had ended up stretched out on the couch, with Tina as well, partially tucked against the back of the couch, but mostly on top of him. Their legs – despite her talk of him being unable to fit on the couch, she was nearly the same height as him – dangled off the edge, too long to be accommodated.

He felt – was it drunk? Yes, he was, but it was something else. Comfortable, calm. Not something he normally felt in the company of someone else. Not since he had been with Seraphina, and they had ended that so long ago. They were still friends, of course... yes, friends, but they had once been something more. But thinking that way made him wonder why Tina calmed him so, and he would rather think about something else. Like the fact she still trembled, how she had drifted off for a moment and then woken up gasping, unable to breathe. He remembered such things. He still felt them, from time to time.

He smoothed his fingers through her hair, until the hitch of her breath evened out, and he couldn’t see her pulse flickering so wildly on her neck anymore. “I was twenty-six,” he began. When had he decided to talk about this? Maybe earlier when Tina was crying, maybe when they were halfway through the bottle. Maybe just that moment. “I had just been stationed to operate entirely out of New York. I was in L.A. before that, and Chicago before that. I thought I'd done it all.

“His name was Roy Calamine. He worked in the factories putting together those charmed windows – you know, the ones that show seascapes or forests or mountains, that sort of thing. At night he liked to gamble, left his wife alone with their five kids. They were living on the scraps he had left over from his wages when he wasn't losing. Then he started stepping out with this woman – a No-Maj. We only realized after he strangled her, once he found out he wasn't her one and only. But in those days we had to wait and see what No-Maj justice was done first. We couldn't interfere, either. No anonymous tips, nothing.

“Suffice it to say, he got off clean with the No-Majs. I was dispatched with my partner to bring him in on charges over Rappaport's Law, and also to see if I could stick him for murder somehow without it being a political move.

“I called his wife to see if he'd be there, and she told me he was on his way home. I told her to get the kids out of there if she could, or confine them to one room, I would be at the apartment soon. But Calamine was there the whole time, and he heard.”

“Did he run?” Tina asked, her voice small and soft. A small vibration against his skin. A miniature earthquake.

“I wish every day of my life he had,” he said. “That would have been the smart thing to do. But Calamine was a drunk, a fool, proud, and stupid. He was a man who cheated on his wife and murdered a woman for daring to do the same thing to her husband. When I got there, his wife was dead. It was messy – he'd been convinced I was her boyfriend. My partner and I tried to arrest him. Some days I wonder if I tried hard enough.”

He didn't know if she was aware of it, but Tina was nosing her face against his chest, almost like a kitten. “He got away?”

“No,” Percival said, firmly. “He drew his wand on me and I sent him out the tenth floor. I was too late to the window to stop his fall. I answered all the questions and filled out all the reports and they all came back saying the same thing: manslaughter in self defence and the pursuit of the law. I was faultless. I still remember leaning out that window, though, looking down at the street. I remember all the kids crying. I felt like it was hours before I understood anything, whenever my partner talked to me I thought she was speaking another language. But looking out that window in Brooklyn, at Roy Calamine, aged forty-five, dead on the ground, I only felt two things: satisfaction I had killed him, and regret that I couldn't do it twice.

“Maybe it was wrong of me to feel that way, or maybe not. I can't know. But that was my reality, at that moment, and I've dealt with it ever since.”

They were silent for some minutes, laying there together on the couch, her slender body wrapped around his. He idly toyed with the idea she had fallen asleep again, but he knew that she hadn't.

“What happened to the kids?” she asked, finally.

“They went to Lady Talon's Home. I donated enough to pay for their upkeep and their schooling at Ilvermorny. That's probably why Damiana Rawley still likes me even though I've tried to arrest her about five times by now. Two of them should still be at Ilvermorny, the rest graduated. A year back I pulled a few strings to get one of them a job in L.A., but that's all I know.”

“Do you think about them?”

“All the time.”

“But you won't contact them?”

“I took their parents away, Tina,” he said. “It was me. Even if they don't blame me, I don't think I could face it.”

Tina tucked her face against his collar and he felt her breath, warm and damp, through the fabric of his shirt. His head was spinning. It was probably the bourbon but there was something else, too. Usually the voice in his head that warned him away from danger matched up with his gut; but just then his instincts were telling him he was right where he needed to be, even though his inner dialogue was trying to tell him he was being foolish, making a mistake, everything was wrong. With the surety of someone switching stations on the wireless, he shut that voice off.

“If you went through it all again, would you do the same thing?” she wondered.

Percival closed his eyes. “I know I would have.”

“How do you deal with it? All of it.”

“I've found more corpses than I've made. I've saved more lives than I've ended.”

“That sounds too simple.”

“It is. What about you?”

“Sir?”

“Percival, Tina. Would you kill Gossamy, if you went through it all again?”

“I don't know.”

“Who struck the final blow?” he asked. “Mariana Moon or Tina Goldstein?” She didn't answer, just took a few breaths, hot against his shirt. “Answer me. Tell me the truth.”

“I'm scared.”

“The truth.”

He felt tears leaking onto his shirt. “It was me,” she said. “Mariana Moon was long gone. I did it. I killed him.”

Some of the tension in his shoulders relaxed, but he found himself holding her just a bit more tightly. She was in control; her decisions were still her own, whatever they may be. “That's good,” he sighed. “Good. You'll be alright, Tina.”

 

He didn't know what time it was. Late.

He gathered her up in his arms. She was a long-limbed woman, slender and strong and heavier than she looked, but still he was able to hold her up. She was awake but likely only about as awake as he felt himself, drifting constantly between dream and reality. He set her onto the bed and climbed in with her, and when she coiled about him like a snake he simply put his arms around her, keeping her close.

“Do you believe in good and evil?” she whispered.

“I believe in people and their possibilities,” he replied, closing his eyes. She was breathing against his neck. She was falling asleep. Yes. She was asleep. So Percival, too, slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bah! This is a long story note. Sorry!
> 
> I didn't mention it in the last chapter, but I should've, seeing as how I gave it special notice. "The House of the Rising Sun" is a super old song, according to the Wikipedia article there were published lyrics in 1925 but it had been sung ages before then. My favourite version is the one by Nina Simone: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oAJnomVdtyo  
> The title of this story was very nearly 'You Come On By' which is another lyric from the song, but when I asked a friend she preferred 'They Call it The Rising Sun', so here we are.
> 
> I haven't had the opportunity to go into it in length in the story just yet, but since we have some limited information on MACUSA, here's the short version of how I'm treating it: HQ is in NYC, but there are smaller MACUSA offices in major cities across America. The offices are all interconnected via a Floo network, which means if you work in, say, Chicago, you can easily be attending meetings in NYC during lunchtime, or you might be called to deal with a problem in Los Angeles if resources are scarce. Technically all MACUSA employees (especially in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement) hearken to NYC, but for employees who need to be actively in the field in a certain area and at the service of wizarding families, they are more or less stationed in separate cities. Think Aurors, Obliviators, etc.  
> Only the part about MACUSA HQ being in NYC is canon, so take it as what you will. But that makes more sense to me in a country like America, which is so expansive, whereas with England it's pretty palatable to have the Ministry in London and bugger all anywhere else. I'm mentioning it because, you know, this is definitely a plot point for the story later >.>
> 
> Anyway, ignoring the very serious tone of this chapter, the first time I typed "Damn it, Tina" I immediately had flashbacks to _Napoleon Dynamite_. DAMN IT, TINA, YOU CAN'T ATTACK NO-MAJS IN A PUBLIC STREET, YOU FAT LARD. On the Tina note, I know it was a bit vague in the chapter, so I'll say it outright: nope, she absolutely did not tell him about the voodoo doll. Omissions don't count as lies in that handy little spell.


	8. the ticking of the clock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beyond being drowned in work for the past week, this chapter was oddly difficult to write so it took awhile to complete. It's another transitional one before the shit hits the proverbial fan for our heroes, so all the plotty stuff is just setup.   
> But also, snuggling.

The first time she had woken up in the same bed as Graves, after promising 'no awkward colliding', she had been surprised to find she had somehow, in her sleep, pressed her hand to the middle of his back, firmly between the sharp jut of his shoulder blades. When she had woken up she'd been a little bit embarrassed, but for all she knew he hadn't realized. She'd clearly slept in a single bed for too long if she needed actual mattress edges to confine her to her own side.

Her hand had been the only part touching him; he hadn't bothered to undress much that time and his waistcoat was silky beneath her palm. Her eyes roved over the back of his neck, the curling ends of the long parts of his hair, before she took her hand away. She wanted to stroke the back of his neck, where his hair was cut short, but instead she rolled over and got out of bed. She resisted the urge glance at his face, as well, though she wondered desperately what Percival Graves looked like while asleep – younger, or older? Instead she had left it as a mystery, calling down to order up coffee and rolls for breakfast.

That had been a few days ago.

This morning she woke breathing in the scent of him. A mixture of soap, bourbon and his natural musk, earthy and raw, like a forest after a rainstorm. Then again, her face was buried right in his neck, nosing at the hollow of his throat, so of course his scent surrounded her. She expected to be mortified that her hysterical actions the night before had led to this, but she wasn't; instead she felt an odd calm, floating over her skin. Satisfaction, too.

It was not just that but her legs had gotten tangled with his, and she knew without looking that she had flung one leg over his hip and both the robe she had worn to bed, and her nightgown, had slipped back, undoubtedly revealing a very large amount of calf and thigh. Then again, she was relatively certain that one of Percival's hands was underneath her robe, tucked around her waist and at the small of her back: how else did his hand feel so warm? There must only be the fabric of the nightgown separating it and her skin. So in terms of who was guiltier, she couldn't be sure.

His breathing was soft, meditative even. She didn't want to get up, she was too pleased and comfortable. They hadn't even bothered to curl under the covers last night – not wonder they were tangled up, for warmth, she reasoned.

She'd never woken up with another man before. Her few dalliances when she was younger, in her later school years, meant she had to be back in her dormitory before anyone caught her. And as an adult she either spent the whole night awake, or parted ways long before the sun came up – sometimes to avoid landlords and landladies. Tina didn't like attachments, and as the years went by, she didn't really like intimacy, either. Of any kind. It was better to live a solitary life, with Queenie. Other people complicated matters.

Percival Graves, though, was the kind of man that would make her consider changing her mind. She had reacted so pitifully last night and he'd barely batted an eyelash – and she'd seen stronger reactions from him when her coworkers mislabelled evidence, so his calm in the face of her breakdown was staggering. His touch had been unexpected but infinitely soothing, his presence so solid and strong that despite everything that had happened she'd managed to get some sleep.

Not a lot, though, if the light in the room was anything to go by. It was still very early, and they'd stayed up talking quite late. She closed her eyes, pressed her cheek to his chest, and listened. Soon enough, she heard the steady beat of his heart, and smiled to herself.

 _We haven't woken up yet_ , she told herself. _You can afford to dally a little bit longer_.

No, no, she really ought to get up. There was work to do. With a sigh over her sensible self winning, she started to shift, wondering just how she would be able to untangle herself; but after only a few seconds of trying to wriggle away, the arm Percival had thrown over her tightened and pulled her close, and she felt the fingers at her waist dig in slightly – not painfully at all, just a light pressure, as if he was reassuring himself that she was there.

Well, that solved that; she closed her eyes again and sighed into his neck, settling in.

 

.

 

She was so lovely and sweet in his arms, Percival could barely stand to berate himself.

Objectively, he knew this was not the simplest or most professional of routes he could have taken. Had he been a fool? In a desperate attempt to reprimand himself, he searched his memories, trying to find his mistakes.

Firstly, had he taken advantage of her? Not that he could tell; that would have to be revealed by her, later, but it stood to reason that if she didn't want him so close she would have pulled away by now. Regardless of bourbon consumption, you didn't just accidentally twine yourself around someone else and sleep the night through like that.

The real trick was figuring out whether he was fooling himself that this was something either of them wanted.

Percival had been an Auror for awhile. It was in his blood, a fact that rankled him; refusing to let himself be carried by the reputation of his ancestors, he had turned down any and all promotions until Seraphina came into office in 1920. Friendship aside, he at least knew any promotions during that time would be fairly earned.

That being said, he had been working in his profession for a long time, one that did not always promise a long life and a natural retirement. If you didn't understand the nature of people then you wouldn't live very long; and if you didn't know yourself, then you could be betrayed just as easily by your subconscious as by an enemy. So he knew about himself, and his people, and tried to understand as much as he could everyone and anyone else in the world.

Being around Tina for the last week he had begun to recognize the strength in her, which had finally been coaxed out by the danger this case possessed. No second guessing, no stammering when she was questioned, no hiding from scolding or cringing away at the idea of a mistake. She had given herself a task – to learn as much as she could and do well by him – and it had begun to eat away at that self-conscious shell she had been wearing, which had only grown thicker after the run-in with the Second Salemers. The result was promising to be fantastic. Yet regardless of all that, he knew one very certain thing about her, which was Tina knew what she wanted, always, and she took every opportunity thrown her way to go for it.

As for himself? Percival knew what he was attracted to. Not in the physical way – that was rarely an issue for him as most women suited his desires – but attraction in a deeper sense. Intelligence, forthrightness, strength, combined with a strange vulnerability that made him feel needed – and Percival was one of those people who had to feel needed, one way or another. But in all things, when everything else was stripped away, she was just an impressive woman, and Percival had always been drawn to that type. Seraphina, for example, though that had not been sustainable – Seraphina didn't _need_ anyone, not like that. What she did need him for was friendship, and to trust him as her Director of Security. Those were roles he happily filled, but left little in the way of romantic entrapment.

Though, as far as romance was concerned, nothing had really happened between himself and Tina, physically – but emotionally he felt like he had stood and watched someone yank the carpet out from underneath him. Not only that, he'd been more than happy to take the fall.

But he had not done anything truly inappropriate. He had held her; that was all. Oh, well, now he was running his hand along her bare thigh as he thought; perhaps that was not the most appropriate action, and his hand stilled immediately when he realized what he'd been doing.

Tina shifted, startling him. “Why'd you stop?” she mumbled against his undershirt. Hm. He began to smooth his hand along her skin, again, and she settled back down.

“I wasn't thinking,” Percival said.

“Liar. I can hear you thinking,” Tina whispered. There was a quiet smile in her voice. “It's like the ticking of a clock.”

“Is it keeping you awake?”

“A little.” He felt her breath, damp against his skin, and he wondered if she had her lips on him, and the thought make his heart flicker painfully for a second. “I'm surprised you haven't...” she paused, clearly trying a few words out in her head, first. “... excused yourself, by now.”

“Why would I?”

“I don't know,” she admitted. “You're mysterious. But I'm steeling myself for when the time comes.”

He shifted, slightly, turning his head to glance at the clock sitting on the bedside table. “Not for another hour, at least,” he said.

“Is that what you're thinking about? How and when to leave?”

“No.”

“What, then? Do you need to talk about anything?”

He didn't think Tina realized just how unusual she was, and how much he liked it. She didn't play games. She wasn't going to try to string him around, tugging this way and that way as if she were trying to land a prize catch. If something was eating at him, she wanted to know. “Not yet,” he murmured, nosing into her hair. “Except-”

“What?”

“You simply _must_ change your hair back to the way it was when we're done, here.”

She let out a surprised little laugh. “You don't like it red?”

“I like it better brown.”

“With respect, _sir_ , a woman's hair, like the rest of her body, is her own prerogative,” she murmured. “But I'll keep your opinions in mind.”

“How very generous of you.” He took a deep breath, her hair tickling the underside of his chin. “You smell like roses.”

“You smell like a storm,” she whispered. 

They laid like that for much longer than an hour.

 

.

 

Tina knew the minute she was alone and in public,  _they_ would find her and approach her. That was what she wanted, but just not  _yet_ , so she needed to keep Percival close for the time being.

The only problem was that, for a moment, she needed him away from her; there was a very delicate matter she needed to discuss with Veronique. Luckily, all she had to do to explain  herself was say she needed to reconnect with the woman who had sent her to Grindelwald's supporters in the first  pleace, and Percival had made himself scarce, ducking into the bookstore next door.

She hadn't been sure what to expect, walking into The Dame – any number of dark corners, strange relics, forbidden symbols. Instead it was beautiful inside, lit by natural light coming in through various windows and enchanted sections of the wall. Hanging jewellery, mirrors, and  coloured  glass glimmered and sent streaks of colour through the air as they reflected the sunlight. There was clothing, gems, oriental fans that were charmed to flap about without the use of hands. Hanging wall art that called out and announced visitors. Even domestics items like self-knitting needles, sock darning spells, and self-wringing mops.

Of course; she had forgotten that Damiana Rawley's wealth came from catalogue selling for those witches and wizards who couldn't make it into a major city to do their shopping. Of course, the variety here in her one physical store, she presumed, was a little more extensive than any catalogue.

While Tina was in a pleasant mood, Mariana was twitchy  and  determined.  Important matters weighed on her shoulders. 

“Oh, excuse me.”

Someone almost bumped straight into her, rounding a stand of brooms. Mariana reached out, steadying the girl. “No harm done,” she said.

It was Geneva Rawley, and she looked a mess, her mascara  smeared on her cheeks  and her lipstick rubbed off. She clearly hadn't gone to bed yet. When she caught sight of Mariana, she – surprisingly – relaxed. “Oh, you're Ronny's friend,” she said, by way of explanation. “I was just, um... Ron said she'd cover for me and say I was here all morning. If I could just-”

Mariana held out her arm. “After you,” she said. “Lead the way. I have to speak with Veronique about a matter, in any case.”

Flashing her a grateful look, Geneva hurried past, her skirts floating behind her, and went to the front counter, ducking through the doorway into the  back, curtain of beads clicking. Mariana noticed that she wore elbow-length gloves.

“There you are,” she heard Veronique's voice hissing from around the corner. “What took you so long!”

“I couldn't get a cab.”

“Well, I've got a dress in the back for you, change into it, alright?” And Veronique rounded the corner, smiling; when she caught sight of Mariana, however, she stopped in her tracks, smile washing away. “Ana,” she greeted, carefully.

So word  about Gossamy  had spread, at least to Veronique.

“Good morning,” Mariana said, checking the clock to make sure that it was, indeed, still morning. “I was wondering if I'd find you here, or if the excesses of last night might have caught up to you.”

“I've a good hand with potions. Sobering up draughts have never been a problem for me.” Veronique tipped her head to the side, slightly, raising her eyebrows. “What about _your_ excesses last night?”

“That's what I've come to speak with you about. Can we talk somewhere in private?”

Her jaw tightened. “I'd rather keep this public, if it's all the same to you.”

Mariana shrugged. “You might change your mind, soon,” she said, stepping up to the counter. She  noticed the way the other woman tensed, and smiled. “You seem anxious. Is something wrong?”

“I'm not sure. Is there?”

Mariana reached into her purse and drew out the voodoo doll of Percival Graves, setting it down on the counter between them.  She had altered it slightly to suit her dramatic purposes, embroidering his initials onto its chest, but by and  large it was the same. “You tell me,” she said, carefully watching the other woman's face.

Something in Veronique's face flickered – she was registering a mix of emotions. Familiarity, realization, fear, anger.  But what Mariana was looking for, and  _saw_ , was recognition. “I like you,” Mariana said, softly. “We have good conversations. I respect  the things that you say. But when you tell me you only make these sorts of dolls under your own strict, moral code, and I find  _this_ floating around the closet of some profit-minded gangster, well, that gives me some doubts.”

Veronique placed both her hands on the counter, leaning forward and meeting Mariana's gaze. “When he came to me for it, he  _looked_ like Graves,” she explained, coldly. “So I made it for him. There was nothing unusual about it. As to how it ended up – elsewhere, I've no idea.”

“It must have belonged to Gellert, then, at some point,” Mariana said, idly poking at the doll (while, at the same time, cringing inwardly). “Though who can tell what he meant it for? But it ended up with our mutual acquaintance, Gossamy. As soon as he figured out it was for Percival Graves, why, I believe he was going to try to curse him on the spot.”

Veronique's tawny skin had gone pale, but her expression was lit by a flicker of anger. “Why are you bringing this to me?” she demanded. “To shame me? Expose me?”

“To let you regain my trust,” Mariana shot back. “What does this doll do?”

“Just so you can take even more advantage of that man?” Veronique scoffed. “Absolutely not. I can't undo what I've done, but I'm not about to take part in it any longer. Leading him around like a lamb to the slaughter is more than I can stomach.”

Mariana sighed. “I've no intention in using  it, I've already got him right where I need him to be.  I just want to know about it, to see  what it is I actually have – and if there's a dormant spell that I might set  off accidentally.  Like an explosive.”

Veronique grimaced at her, but she knew she was winning the conversation. “How can I believe you?”

“How can I believe _you_?” she countered. “You claim one thing, and say another. You sent me to Gossamy, but the man was a gangster trying to get rich off of politics and nothing more.”

“We can't pick and choose our compatriots.”

“We can pick and choose our friends.”

The other woman sighed, and shook her head. Mariana tried again. “ I need your expertise,” she said. “About this doll, and about some other things, as well. Magic. And when we are done, I will hide away, seal, deactivate, whatever it is that needs to be done to this doll.”

Veronique frowned, and for a long while neither woman said anything. Then Mariana watched, tense, as the other woman reached out and picked up the doll.

“We call it a blessing doll,” she said. “It best channels magic, usually for improvement of the health.”

“That doesn't sound so bad.”

“I said usually,” Veronique said, dryly. “The doll is made up of several components. Grave dirt, moss, a special blend of herbs, but also personal effects – hair, fingernails, and blood.” Mariana did her best not to shudder, wondering just where and when Grindelwald had chosen to bleed Percival out. While he was asleep, hopefully. “The spell I weave for it takes about five hours to complete. My guess is that... your friend wanted it made to experiment with your _other_ friend. It can't be connected with anything else but Percival Graves. Does that help?”

“Not at all.”

Veronique shrugged, unbothered. “As to the doll itself,” she said, “I remember making this a few months ago. The spell only lasts for  nine months, then it fades. After that, it can be buried and the rest of it will break down naturally. So as long as it is kept safe, that should be that.”

Mariana nodded. “Good,” she said, moving to pick the doll up. Veronique's hand shot out, grasping her wrist. 

“I think I should keep it,” the other woman said, stonily.

Mariana gave her a dazzling smile. “How about this,” she suggested. “We stick to our deal. I need you to craft a few items for me, and when you're done  I'll give it up. But not to you. To Kate.”

Veronique thought about that, and then nodded. “That's better,” she agreed. “We can both trust Kate to do the right thing.”

“We can.”

“And Gossamy?” she asked. “Was that the right thing?”

“Judging your own choices is a dangerous game to play,” Mariana said. “But I can tell you that he deserved it.”

 

Percival had pointed out that she may as well beat them to the punch, _them_ being Gossamy's companions, and any others, from the night before. It was a risky  manoeuvre, but would be affective; in any case, Percival was lurking nearby, so Tina wasn't unduly worried.

She went back to the basement were she had been just the night before. The men had scrubbed up – the blood and the chalked symbol on the floor were gone. So was any trace of Gossamy's body. She closed and locked  Gossamy's back office to limit the space a fight could occur in, hung up the coat she had “borrowed” the evening before to get back to her hotel, and sat down at the poker table to wait.

She felt rather than heard the distinctive sound of several people Apparating at the top of the stairs. Expectedly, there was a thump and a muffled swear as someone accidentally stepped on someone else. “Just come on down, boys,” Mariana called, shuffling and dealing a deck of cards. “It's lonely down here.”

The first man to appear was the one she remembered as having been particularly vocal about leaving Gossamy alone. She wondered if they'd been too close for him to feel victorious about being right  about her.  “Stephan,  wasn’t it?”  she said. “Put your wand away. I'm just here to talk.”

“You were here to  _ talk _ to Gossamy.”

“He's the one who changed the topic, not me,” she shrugged. “If I was going to wipe you all out, I would have done so by now. You've been following  me  for the past hour.  Besides, you saw the aftermath: I  took Gossamy out without a wand, and I assure you that is not the case this evening. Are you sure you want to try me?”

That was the correct thing to say, apparently, because Stephan grudgingly lowered his wand.  “So you figure you're in charge, now?”

“That depends.” Mariana waved her hand towards the wall, where the magical map of New Orleans was still etched into the wood. “New Orleans is awfully big. I'm open to retaining a partner. So how about we sit, have a drink, and discuss tomorrow's plans?”

Stephan sank into the seat across from her, looking wary. “How do you know about tomorrow?”

“ Tomorrow is  New Year's Eve. I came all the way from New York to be in on the celebrations.  There  _ must _ be celebrations.”

“I should kill you.”

“You shouldn't,” she countered. “It just makes you feel better to say it. Now, shall we get down to business, or duel?”

Stephan was much smarter than Gossamy, it turned out. She was rather glad he had been promoted.

 

.

 

“ So we're sure?” he asked.

They had gone out to dinner – a fancy wizarding restaurant in the French Quarter that had half a dozen women glaring at him for having the nerve to bring Mariana there, instead of one of their daughters – before going to Percival's rooms for the usual debriefing. It was Tina's first time there, and he had rather forgotten that she would require something to sleep in, since he never did himself  in her rooms. But him sleeping in trousers and an undershirt was a lot different than asking her to just wear her slip to bed, and he could only imagine how impossible it was to sleep in a dress dripping with beading. He'd lent her a pair of pyjamas. He'd already changed into his own.

“Very sure,” she answered from the bathroom, where she was changing. “We're reconvening tomorrow at seven and then going to our separate spots. Will you be able to get a hold of the President?”

“I've never had that issue.” He had been sending her secret memos and updates since arriving, but this would require a more clandestine – and personal – message. He would have to wait until Seraphina was in her office in the morning, and he could communicate with her  from there.

There was no question: a planned multiple attack on No-Maj buildings throughout New Orleans was something the President definitely needed to know about. In the midst of all the fireworks, there would also be just plain fire.

Tina walked out of the bathroom, and tried to strike a pose for him. He imagined she was trying to go for something she might have seen on an advert. She failed at it, but did succeed in bringing a smile to his face. “Who wore it better?” she said, motioning to her pyjamas. “Mr Graves or myself?”

“I think you.”

“I politely disagree,” she said. While they  nearly  matched in height, he was a broad-shouldered man and she was of a much slender er figure, so the pyjamas practically engulfed her. “I don't think I fill these out quite right.”

“Be serious, Tina,” he said, trying to control his expression. “We're talking about attacks.”

“On buildings,” Tina  pointed out. “They're all condemned and empty. And we're informed beforehand, Aurors will be there before any terrible damage is done. This is  _ good  _ news. If you hadn't been helping me, then we might never have found out about this until it was too late.”

Percival shook his head. Not because he disagreed on their discovery, but the fact she seemed to think he had anything to do with it. It was all her.  He wouldn't say it aloud, but it would definitely make it into the report the President would read.

“We'll be fine,” she insisted. “We've got MACUSA's best Auror on the case. And his assistant.”

“I can't even pretend you're being modest,” Percival said, getting up from his armchair and sighing, cracking a kink out of his neck. “ If you were, you'd admit that we're partners.”

She shrugged, then headed towards the bed. “Do you always take the right side?” she asked.

“Is that a problem?”

“No,” she said, pulling back the covers and climbing in. “I can usually sleep wherever.”

She was acting cavalier, but he thought he knew what she was thinking. Not just how they had woken up that morning, and how they hadn't talked about it after getting up and facing the day (though they weren't denying it either); but also how her entire night had gone, in anxiety and sleeplessness and fear.

“Do you think you'll have nightmares again?” Percival asked, figuring he may as well mention it outright, the way she did when she was asking him questions.

She shrugged, then shook her head, red hair fanning over the pillow. “I don't think so,” she said, eyes following his hand as he waved it, extinguishing the lights one by one, double checking the locks and charms on the door. “I should be fine.”

For a moment, Percival felt – it wasn't awkwardness, but it was something similar. That faint, excited, nervous feeling that he hadn't felt in years. It reminded him distinctly of Ilvermorny. He hadn't been nervous around a woman in years but, then again, he hadn't cared enough about his dalliances. Even if he didn't hold Tina in high esteem (which he definitely did) or think her beautiful (also, absolutely did) she was still his coworker and deserved a certain type of respect and careful handling in that regard alone.

_Don't make it complicated_ , he scolded himself. _You've started something, don't you dare backtrack on_ _her._ _That's all there is to it._

“That's a shame,” he said, leaving only one light on, a glowing torch-like bracket on his side of the bed. “I was hoping for an excuse to sleep close to you again.”

Was she blushing, or was it the lighting? “You know you don't need an excuse,” she said, lightly.

“I wasn't sure.”

“Here I thought you were thinking smart, intelligent things this morning,” she teased, scooting a bit closer to him. “Thinking so loud it woke me.”

It took some moments – long, sweet, wonderful moments – before they had found a comfortable way to curl around each other again. When Tina tucked her face into his neck, he felt a tightening in his chest.  All day she had played Mariana, touching him, kissing him, flirtatious and lingering, but that had been different. That wasn't Tina.  _ This _ was Tina, a little bit awkward, a little bit scattered, but utterly real. He so desperately wanted to kiss her goodnight, but at the same time he worried it would mean nothing, after all of the other meaningless gestures they'd traded all day.

At least here, in the dark, he could be comforted by this very real thing: Tina sighing against his skin, one hand sliding over his bicep, acquainting herself with each curve, freckle and scar. “ Goodnight,” she murmured. His heart felt so full it was clogging up his throat, so he simply closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.


	9. a little party never killed nobody

It was Friday. It was also the final day of 1926.

Seraphina was looking forward to the new year; as far as she was concerned, 1926 was certainly not her best, situated as it was halfway through her second term as president. But she had two years left to make up for it, and she would not waste her chance. A new year, a clean slate. She had high hopes for her citizens, her city, and her country.

She was in her New York office, drinking coffee. Even if it hadn't been New Year's Eve, with everyone except for a skeleton crew on half-hours today, she still would have been in relative silence. She needed to arrive early in order to get everything she needed done for the day, before she went home and readied herself for the endless parties and functions she had to attend before finally ending up on the rooftop full of wizarding elite in order to watch the ball drop in Times Square.

She took delicate bites of toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon while she read the _New York Ghost_ , then double-checked her schedule. She was on her second cup of coffee when she heard a sound that almost made her spit her eggs out.

Ringing.

Getting to her feet and wiping butter from her fingertips (despite popular belief, she was just as much a regular witch as anyone else) and walked over to the side of her office. She placed her hand against the wall and pushed down, and then aside, and the hidden panel slid open, revealing the telephone.

It was No-Maj and, strictly speaking, a bit contraband. But Seraphina was not a fool, and she was prepared to utilize tools that were available to her, regardless of origin. The former President had felt the same way; they had been the one to install the telephone in the first place.

While No-Maj in construction, magic was definitely used to keep it eternally hooked up and connected to the No-Maj electrical grid. It was a handy piece of technology, and allowed the immediate distribution of information that was nearly impossible to track. The only way of communication even close to it was talking by fireplace. It was only used in instances where it wasn't safe to have a written record of the conversation, for security purposes.

She picked up the phone. “This is the Operator,” she said, into the mouthpiece, hoping she was using the damn thing correctly. “How may I direct your call?”

“Gigglewater.”

Password spoken, she relaxed. Names were never spoken over the telephone; and if the line reception was terrible or they were disguising their voice for safety, the password told her exactly which person she was speaking to. Naturally, her favourite Auror got her favourite password. “What's going on?” she said. “Where are you?”

“Oh, this charming little bakery,” Graves said. “I'm buying beignets. The baker is letting me use the phone. She's quite nice, not like you at all. Are you alone?”

“Nothing here but myself and my coffee.”

“Good. I have five addresses for you to memorize, one will go up in flames at eight sharp tonight, and another one every hour after that. Except for the midnight one, you must let them burn for at least ten minutes, or our arsonists will know there's a leak.”

Seraphina waved over parchment and quill. “So what's expected at midnight?”

“One explosion timed to go off in the French Quarter. That one _does_ need to be stopped, it's far too close to several residences.”

Seraphina nodded, even though Graves could not see. It was paramount that he and Goldstein kept their cover, but they also couldn't let anyone get hurt. She would have to leak this information to her own people slowly, because as far as everyone in MACUSA was aware – save for herself, her two Aurors in the field, and Queenie Goldstein – there was no one working undercover in New Orleans. In fact, rumours had already started circulating in New York that Percival Graves was rolling about with a vampy redhead and was probably going to marry her and run off to the French Riviera rather than come back to work. And as for Tina Goldstein, everyone seemed to have forgotten she even existed, unless they were mentioning she'd probably gained one hundred pounds and refused to go outside anymore.

Office gossip really was extraordinary.

“Got them?” Graves asked, once he had told her the five addresses.

“Yes. Anything else?”

“Yes. Our coworker is one of the arsonists.”

“What about you?”

“I will be at a party, and not notice her twelve minute absence, as I will be too busy drinking. Each arsonist will be taking a turn for each attack, to make them harder to track. Mariana is scheduled to light up the second building at nine o'clock. A man named Stephan Sully will be taking care of the last attack.”

“Which is on a populated block.”

“Like I said, that's the one you have to stop. Well, I have to go before these beignets get cold.”

She rolled her eyes. “Careful of those,” she said. “You're going to get fat, and no one will ever marry you.”

“Ah, you're just jealous you're not here,” he said. There was a smugness to his voice. “Enjoy your day of hard work and your evening smiling at people until your face hurts. I must say, I'm glad I got out of it this year.”

“Yes, you get to play sullen ex-cop with a blood-sucking mistress,” Seraphina said, dryly.

“Exactly.” He paused, and for a moment she wondered if that was it, but then he said, “Stay safe.”

“You as well.” After a few more seconds of silence, she gently put the phone down. She and Percival hated saying goodbye. It was easier to pretend they just forgot to include it in their conversations.

 

.

 

She woke when Percival had first gotten up, but he'd told her to keep sleeping, so she had. Her dreams after that were strange and wavering, mostly voices and flashes of feeling. At one point, she felt blood on her hands, sticky and hot. But then she sensed the bed shift and that gently pushed her out of her dream, and she blinked in the morning sunlight.

“Good morning,” Percival said. He was sitting on her side of the bed, which meant she didn't have to shift to get very close; just a wriggle and she was near enough to press her cheek to his hip.

“Morning,” she murmured, closing her eyes as she felt his fingers in her hair. It really, truly was one of her favourite things, having her hair touched – it was such a sensual experience. It had been too long since a man had done such a thing for her, and done it well. The little tugs as he attempted to unsnarl a few strands sent tingles through her scalp. “What have you been up to?”

“I spoke to the President. And got you some beignets.”

“Hm. Good on both counts.”

She wondered if Percival was going to stay like that, or just take off his shoes and get back into bed already. She hoped the latter. She was about to voice this preference when he rubbed at the back of her neck. “I'm getting up.”

“Why?”

“To pour coffee. Then I'll come back.”

“Oh.” Tina shifted, allowing him to get to his feet. “Good.”

She watched him cross the room, idly waving his wand as he did so, sending everything from the silver coffee service to the beignets floating about in the air and rearranging themselves. He cut a very fine, sharp figure, as per usual, and she thought about the first time she had realized the fact that, beyond being generally terrifying, he was also unfairly handsome. Sometimes when she was feeling flighty and jaded she had wished she wasn't an Auror, was just a normal woman making coffee and delivering memos, because it had always seemed more likely Percival Graves would notice a woman like that instead of one of his own people. She'd been told on more than one occasion, by men and women both, that no one wanted an Auror for a wife. In fact, she heard many women in the office make that scathing remark in her hearing, though Tina had a feeling they were talking about the prettier female Aurors as opposed to Plain Jane Tina.

Of course, after awhile she'd come to her senses and realized there was no point in chasing after a man like Graves. But Merlin, he was still wonderful to look at, and a good reason to be punctual. And then when she actually _hadn't_ been an Auror anymore, had become that sort of woman she had imagined he would notice, she had been too concerned with trying to get her job back than attempt to make herself pretty or tempting.

And now, _now_ he was pouring them both coffee and getting back into bed with her. Fully clothed, but still, that had to count for something in Tina's mind, as well as in her private world where she remembered every snide word anyone had ever said to her about her appearance and her inability to attract men of quality.

The breakfast tray floating over them, they curled up together and read through the _New Orleans_ _Loon_ , and a copy of the _New York Ghost_ Percival had specially delivered to him each day. It wasn't really romantic, because Percival quizzed her about current events, but it was distinctly _him_ and that was quite fine with Tina. They hadn't even gone on a date yet, not a proper one as themselves, anyway. All she could say for certain right then was that she enjoyed his company in more ways than one, and he appeared to have similar views towards her. And it was just nice to lay with someone the way they were.

Articles finished, they began to work on the crosswords. Tina had once glanced through the major paper in New York that the No-Majs read once, out of an illicit curiosity; upon discovering they were too boring to supply a crossword, had given up and put the paper back.

“What are your plans for today?” she asked him. They weren't due to make an appearance anywhere until six in the evening – first at a stately dinner, then a party at Tobias Mope's house, then possibly hitting up a club on Flight Street – so she wondered. For herself, she needed to get to The Dame, sit with Veronique to gather her items, and then go to Kate to deliver the doll into safe keeping. Preferably, that was to be done while Percival was otherwise engaged.

She didn't like hiding it from him, but she had a gut feeling about it, telling her she needed to be careful – and that if Percival knew, not only would it somehow bring him more danger, but also take away her upper hand in trying to figure out what it all meant. She had little information to go on, but he was always telling her she needed to trust her instincts. In this, she swore she would not falter or fail. Even if the President had not told her to keep him safe, it was the only thing she could think about, now – somehow in the last forty eight hours, he had become precious to her.

“I think I'll go get a shave,” he said, pondering over the puzzle for eleven across. “Then head to the gentlemen's club, and see if I can track down Tobias and anyone else. Though our party plans are quite strict this evening, so I'll try not to get too carried away.”

“Well, you _are_ on vacation,” she said. She reached up and touched his jaw, before she thought better of it; he started and then they locked gazes for a moment, both of them wondering: what was happening?

She swallowed and drew her hand back with a nervous laugh. “Sorry,” she said, “I just wanted to feel your stubble, that's all. Is that strange?”

The smile he gave her sent more than relief blossoming through her – something a little more ticklish than that. “I was just surprised,” he said, taking her hand and rubbing the back of it against his cheek. She felt the scrape of his stubble, and grinned, hoping he didn't notice her shiver.

“You vagabond,” she said. “I can't be seen with an unshaven man.”

“Maybe I should grow a moustache. One of those really thin ones.”

“No, please don't.”

“A man's facial hair, like his body, is his own prerogative, Tina,” he said, reciting her statement from the night before. “But I'll keep your opinion in mind.”

 

Veronique seemed much happier to see her than she had the day before; perhaps she'd had time to ponder things, but more likely she'd remember she never liked Gossamy much anyway. She struck Tina as being that cold-blooded.

“I have your order,” she said, taking each piece out and showing it to Mariana. Among them was a thigh sheath for the knife she had taken from Gossamy, enchanted to keep the blade perpetually sharp; missive paper which, when folded into a paper airplane, zipped towards the recipient of the letter faster than any owl, and almost impossible to intercept; a necklace made of small, dark beads, a third of which were actually polished, hardened bits of Peruvian darkness powder.

The last item was ridiculously expensive but, Mariana felt, absolutely worth it. She purchased a ring for Percival, as well, surmounted by a chunk of the stuff. Just in case.

Gathering those and the rest of her items up, she next went to pay a visit to Kate, who was still abed. Like Queenie, Kate was one of those women who seemed like the girl in all the advertisements – youthful and glowing, even in a pair of black and red silk pyjamas, freshly woken from sleep. “Come in, darling, come in,” she yawned, kissing Mariana's cheeks in hello. “I'll make us some coffee. You've just missed Jade.”

“She seems a sweet girl.”

“Sweeter than I deserve,” the blonde said. “Alright, Ronny told me what to expect, so we'll lock it right up.”

Tina handed the doll over, and watched as Kate moved to tuck it away in a compartment, hiding just beneath the sideboard. “You're not worried about me seeing where it is?” she asked.

Kate shrugged. “It's enchanted for my touch,” she said. “I'm the only one who can open it. I'll take good care of your Mr Graves, I promise.”

“Thank you, Kate.”

The other woman smiled at her. It was not just Mariana but also Tina who smiled back. “Anything for a friend,” Kate said. “Now how about that coffee?”

 

.

 

Percival was tense at the prospect of the evening that awaited him, but at least he looked good. It being New Year's Eve, he was outfitted in a tux. Personally, he hated them – they were so stiff and hard to move in – but it was expected he make such an effort, and so he did. He supposed it was only right these days that women had much better ease of movement in their clothing than men did, probably a first during hundreds of years of sexism.

He had placed an extension charm in the pockets of his jacket, allowing him to hide his enchanted diary – after the event with Gossamy, he and Tina had mutually decided they would bring their diaries with them wherever they went, even if they planned on staying together the whole night. It was less risky that way.

Most of his concern for the evening went into minimizing as much risk as possible. The first thing he'd made sure of was going past each of the future targets and ascertaining the buildings really _were_ all clear, free of any homeless who might be finding shelter or children playing where they shouldn't be. Certain everything was empty, he'd locked up each place to ensure no one wandered in.

He'd then gone about making sure both he and Tina had packed up anything important which could direct either their enemies or their friends in MACUSA into realizing Percival was there on official matters. Tina especially needed to collect and pack anything which revealed her true identity. Everything had been collected into small, separate bags, again with the extension charm; that way if things went wrong all they had to do was Apparate through their rooms, grab the bags, and go.

Beyond that, though, he found himself annoyingly powerless. Even though a multitude of things could go wrong tonight, Percival was in a position where he had very little ability to do anything about it. Still, he _had_ been telling the truth to Seraphina when he said he was glad he was out of the yearly torture ring that was navigating New Year's Eve parties in an official capacity. At those events he was expected to both have a good time and also protect the President, which were two things that simply did not go hand in hand. He would have to trust that his Aurors would keep her safe while he was away, and focus on getting his own work done with Tina.

It was six o'clock and Percival was patiently waiting in the lobby of Tina's hotel when she exited the elevator. She was dazzling, draped in peacock blue and emerald green, her hair held back by a jewelled headband that dangled strands of crystals by her left cheek. Beads glistened on the dress and around her neck, long and swinging and down to her waist.

He'd never seen her wear the dress before, and soon he understood why – it was entirely backless. Save for the string of pearls that graced the middle of her back, keeping the fabric in place, it showed a long, smooth, toned expanse of skin he suddenly couldn't wait to slide his hand over. Unfortunately, he didn't have much time to admire her before she was tucking herself against him, and he reminded himself this was Mariana, not Tina, and it was time to get to work.

They went to Flight Street, first, to the restaurant one of his uncle's cronies had invited him to when he had first arrived in New Orleans. Of course, back then they had presumably wanted him to attend with one of their daughters, and it entertained Percival to be able to bring Mariana instead.

It was also a good opportunity, though, for Mariana to play a foil to Percival in terms of dinner discussion. She would be sitting with an assortment of men and women from the upper crust life, and she would be able to tantalize and tease them into revealing political views – without them realizing that was what she was trying to do, as well. Subterfuge wasn't expected from people of Mariana's background.

Upon being shown to the table and introducing her to every single one of them – there were twelve at the table in all, including themselves, and the ones who weren't staring at her were giving her the stink eye – they seated themselves and Percival entertained himself for a moment with Tina's cover.

One of the things he had noticed about Tina's fake persona, which he had yet to ask her about, was how she used food to divide herself from Mariana. Tina loved spicy food, hot dogs, sugary concoctions, and anything in the form of a sandwich. Mariana shied away from the spicier dishes, but heartily enjoyed rare steaks and buttery sauces. He noticed this because he'd taken Mariana to dinner so many times, but also sat up late with Tina snacking, or breakfasted with her in the morning. When it came to food, they were obviously two different women.

It wasn't that Tina disliked Mariana's food choices; he just had the distinct impression she'd much rather be eating andouille sausage than the fish she had ordered.

“So how did you two meet?” that was Mrs Bronson, whose husband owned a good portion of the mail owls in Louisiana and Florida. She was one of the few women at the table who seemed to find Mariana genuinely interesting; in that regard, Percival figured Mrs Bronson was also the _smartest_ one at the table for picking up on it.

“Dancing,” Mariana said, idly.

“I didn't know Percival danced,” Mr Bronson remarked, attempting to enter the conversation by genial means.

“Oh, he doesn't,” Mariana said, leaning back in her seat and taking a sip of her wine. “I was the one doing the dancing.” Percival coughed into his wineglass in genuine surprise at her all but admitting she was a burlesque performer, but Mrs Bronson let out a peal of delighted laughter.

Her husband gave her a stern look. “I see.”

Mariana popped a bite of fish dripping with hollandaise into her mouth, and washed it down with some wine. “It's easy to spot the gentlemen, in that type of work,” she said, mildly. “I recommend sneaking into a performance at some point, Mrs Bronson. It will sharply change your perspective.”

“I'm sure it will,” she said, dryly. Mr Bronson continued to glower, especially when his wife complimented Mariana on her beautiful violet necklace.

At 6:58, Mariana excused herself to go and powder her nose. She was back less than five minutes later, looking immaculate. She touched the back of his wrist, signalling that everything was to continue as planned – and while he didn't relax, he did feel some relief that everything was going as expected for the time being.

If she was nervous about torching a building, she certainly didn't show it. She had wanted to shadow all of the other arsonists as well, to make sure the flames didn't spread too quickly and hurt anyone, but he'd successfully talked her out of it. There would be Aurors alerted right away to be able to deal with the blazes; they had to focus on solidifying trust and loyalty.

That complete, she threw her entire focus into the dinner discussion. She was well-trained and executed herself beautifully, all of her questions and statements beginning innocently enough, but within a half hour there was a lively discussion being thrown around about the President, Grindelwald, Europe, and taxes. It had seemed entirely organic, to the point where it would have been impossible to fix Mariana as the perpetrator.

As entertaining as it was, unfortunately Mariana failed to find a mark in the political fray. Everyone seemed equally divided and willing to play Devil's Advocate, to the point that when dessert and sweet wine was finally served no one seemed inclined to agree on anything, or even give a strong personal opinion.

“Sorry,” Tina murmured into his ear, as she looped her hand around his elbow. He gave the back of her hand a conciliatory pat. The real work was to begin elsewhere, anyway.

 

The main party for the evening was being hosted by Tobias, at his family home in the city (but not the _ancestral_ home; that was located somewhere in Colorado). It was a large and sprawling house, elegantly turned out but excessively modern, and squished onto a street populated with other similarly lovely homes. Tobias' home, however, was the only one where upon entering the front door, small bits of glittering confetti seemed to flutter about like snow, magically enchanted to not stick to a single person's clothing or skin.

The minute Percival and Mariana arrived, drinks were in their hands and handshakes were being exchanged. It was eight in the evening, and Percival could feel the seconds ticking by. He found himself with his hand at the small of Tina's back, her body warm and steady under his touch, but he could feel the tension in her muscles.

He gently scraped his nails against her skin; he was so close he could see the gooseflesh prickle down her back. She gave him a hooded look. “You look like you have something on your mind,” he murmured, by way of explanation.

She blinked in, he thought, understanding, then leaned in and brushed her lips against his. “I hear singing,” she said, reaching around to her back to grasp his hand. “Come on.”

He recognized the man's voice as Dorian Faust, and he was only mildly surprised to see that his singing companion was Damiana Rawley. Faust was connected to several of Damiana's business ventures, but, just like his boss, he had managed to avoid any kind of arrest record. If Percival recalled correctly, he was only in town for about a week a month; during the rest he was in the bayou or working on cargo transport for the business. He was Damiana's favourite accessory of the masculine variety for his good looks, talent, and charm – as bodyguards went, anyone would be hard-pressed to find another with such an agreeable nature.

While Dorian played piano, he and Damiana sang, a playful jazz song about love and bathtub gin. They must have been singing for quite some time, because once they were finished they bowed to claps and whoops and laughter, and excused themselves for refreshments.

“You just caught the tail end of our show,” Damiana said, smiling in an indulgent way. “How is your evening going so far?”

“Quite well. Yours?”

She gave an easy laugh, waving her hand. “Not too bad,” she admitted. “I've got Dorian to myself tonight. Geneva is hitting the town with Kate – I shudder to think what those two are capable of this evening.” She tipped her head to the side, still smiling, her eyes crinkled in pleasure. “Oh, Mariana, you look sinful. I love that dress.”

“Really?” Mariana smiled and gave a twirl, her skirts flaring out. “I'm fond of it, myself.”

“As am I,” Dorian said, pleasantly, holding his hand out to her. “Would you like to dance, Miss Moon?”

“I don't see why not.”

“Don't you worry,” Damiana said, sidling up next to Percival while the other two slipped away through the crowd. “He won't steal her away.”

“I'm not worried.”

“You look worried. You're a man in love.”

He shook his head. “You need another drink,” he said, snidely, “And maybe you'll start making sense again.” She let out a huff of laughter and, to his relief, pulled him away to the nearest tray of drinks.

He _was_ worried, after all. Tina needed to keep her eye on the clock.

 

.

 

Dorian was a wonderful dancer, light on his feet and impeccable at leading. She'd danced with men before who were too shy to properly lead their girl around, which made dancing more of a chore than a pastime.

He was also a dancer as opposed to a suitor, which made excusing herself a lot more easy than if she had been entertaining the attention of another man. Claiming she needed to check and see if other friends had arrived, she stepped out into the balmy evening air. She was not the only one; several groups and couples were out there, chatting and smoking. The yard throughout the back of the house was elegantly decorated with tables, statues, and fantastically pruned bushes; it was behind one of these she darted, Disapparating in an instant.

The air went from warm and welcoming and joyful to dismal and heavy as she stood, now, in the shadow of the old factory, chosen weeks ago by Gossamy for its position and importance. It was a canning factory (which reminded her of Jacob); while it wasn't abandoned, it was certainly empty for the evening. What Tina was about to do would serve as an economic blow more than anything else.

She drew out her stolen wand – she and Percival had decided it was better she use it instead of her own for all of these ventures – and cast a quick spell to see if she was, indeed, alone. The spell came up clean, save for the souls of several rats scurrying about in the factory itself.

Obviously, Tina didn't want to do it. But these were all perfectly timed and set apart to create maximum chaos in the city for the evening, and if she faltered it would destroy the entire operation – which would blow her cover and, also, possibly endanger lives. Their current safety precautions were in place and only reliable so long as Tina went along with what she said she was going to do; a single failure could be catastrophic.

So there was no time to lose. Taking a deep breath, she swept her wand in a slow, circular motion towards the wall of the building before her, muttering quickly under her breath. Her magic spread out, finding and discovering dry kindling, frayed electrical chords, spilt chemicals. A shift in the air, a spark, and she could _feel_ several small fires starting.

Sweeping her wand in the opposite direction, she sent waves of magic out to feed them, until the building housed a good dozen fiery blazes, spreading more quickly than the blink of an eye.

And then she was done, and in another moment she was standing outside in the delicate garden of Tobias Mope's home. She slipped out from behind the greenery and stepped towards the champagne-coloured light flooding from the windows, her wand safely tucked away, not a single smudge or stain on her dress to reveal that she had, for a moment, not been there at all.

To her surprise, she found Percival dancing with Veronique on the dance floor. All in red, with her short hair slicked down into a sticky, finger-waved bob, she looked like the sort of devil woman pictured on bottles of gin, with Percival as a dapper Lucifer.

There was a hand on her elbow and it was Tobias, grinning with boyish delight. “Come on,” he said, pulling her towards the dance floor. “Let's get out there and trade partners, hm?”

“If you want to dance with Percival you can just ask him nicely,” she teased.

Tobias laughed. “I'm glad Percival's taken an interest in you,” he said, leading her about in a circle for a moment, letting her skirt flare out. “What a bore he's been these past few years. But you're good for him, I can tell.”

Mariana smiled and open her mouth to speak, when a hideously loud, screeching sound interrupted her.

It was terrible, cutting through the noise of chatter, laughter, and music. A pale, ghostly mist swept through the house, through the doorways and across rooms, pushing aside the glittering confetti, causing voices to die on lips and musicians to come to a slow and uncertain stop.

The mist coalesced into a huge eagle, wings outstretched, and its cruel beak opened – and a very human, familiar voice came out. The voice of Den Higgles, New Orleans' Chief Auror.

 _Citizens of MACUSA_ , it said. _There_ _have_ _been rumours of dangerous activity and Aurors have been dispatched to your home. Your safety as always is our top priority. Please maintain your position but do not be alarmed. Carry on with your festivities, and await further guidance from MACUSA._

Tobias had released her in shock, but another hand found hers, and before she knew it she was being gently pulled into the crowd. She glanced back over her shoulder, watching the Patronus dissipate into thin air.

“Someone start the music again!” Tobias called from within the crowd, sounding rather desperate.

Tina followed Percival out of the room, along a side hall, and then down a narrow set of stairs before stopping at the landing.

“You need to go,” he said. “We'll rendezvous at eleven. Two-two-eight-one Flight Street.”

She nodded. There was absolutely no way of knowing if Seraphina was sending Aurors to collect them, or if Mariana had accidentally left a trace of herself at a crime scene, or if this was a completely unrelated event entirely. In any case, it was paramount they act as best they could in the circumstances – which meant Mariana Moon absolutely could not be found and identified as disgraced Auror Tina Goldstein.

“Should I get our things?” she said.

“That might be best. If they're going to raid here, then the rest of the wizarding spots in the city are likely as well. Try to get out without being seen, but if I know anything about a crowd like this, you won't be the only one making a hasty exit, so your chances are good. Now go.”

She nodded again and began to turn away – but then Percival grabbed her. She turned on her heel towards him, a puzzled 'Sir?' on her mouth, before suddenly she was pulled up against his chest, and kissed.

She'd kissed him before, many times. Hell, she had kissed him not an hour ago in front of all the other guests. And he had kissed her.

But none of those had been real.

 _This_ was real. There was nothing to tell her the difference between the false affection and the real deal, besides the difference she felt in her heart and in his hands as he held her. She trusted it to be true. It was a firm, earnest, maybe even a little desperate, kiss. She pressed herself against him, luxuriating in his touch on her bare back, his chest pressed to hers.

And just as quickly, he was pulling away. “Be careful, Goldstein,” he said softly, face hovering just above hers, his voice a little bit hoarse.

 _Don't swoon don't swoon don't swoon_ , she begged herself. She felt like she was trying to shake off the warmth of a good dream on a cold morning.

“You too, Mr Graves,” she breathed. Then, not trusting either of them if she stayed any longer, slipped quickly out of his grasp and ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah a bunch of stuff is about to go wrong but who cares they KISSED


	10. shot in the dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, the story tags have been added to. Otherwise, enjoy the madness :)

The last time Tina had scaled a wall had been at Ilvermorny. She remembered, clearly, boosting herself over the wall of the Herbology garden, which was built alongside the greenhouse. Joseph Stiles had been waiting for her, and nothing had seemed impossible for her at that moment. A kiss under the moonlight, that had been valuable enough to risk any amount of detention.

Now she was trying to crawl over the wall at the back of Tobias Mope's home. She wasn't the only one; it seemed there were quite a few witches and wizards in attendance with suspicious records, and the threat of an Auror raid had them scrambling. Too bad; Tobias was going to have a hard time getting people to attend his next soiree.

“Need a hand?”

It was Dorian Faust. Handsome indoors, he was even better looking in the moonlight, with a too-white smile and capable hands. “Up we go,” he said, grabbing her about the waist and giving her a boost. She reached out and, scrabbling a little, got a hold of some ivy growing into the wall.

It wasn't risky to use magic – in a party this large it would be impossible to identify each spellcaster – but like everyone else making a quick escape, they all knew an influx of magical activity would have the Aurors rushing to the house quicker than usual. The physical method was the way to go, at least until they were out of range.

At the top of the wall, Tina stopped, reaching down to lend a hand up to Dorian. She heaved, pulling him up, feeling the moment when his shoes made purchase with a groove in the rocks. Then, for a moment, they were sitting atop the wall together.

He looked at her, and it was strange. There was something not quite human about his gaze; oddly piercing. But something clicked for her, as she looked at him. “You're in love with Damiana Rawley,” she remarked.

He grinned. “Well-spotted,” he said. “Good luck to you, Ms Moon. The things I could tell you about _you_ ; but we haven't the time.” He slipped off the edge of the wall and was swallowed into darkness.

She glanced over her shoulder at the glowing house, where Percival was. His mouth was like a ghost upon her lips. _Oh, love,_ she thought to herself. How strange that it affected everyone in different ways, how even Veronique, making snide remarks about Tobias, still lit up like a candle when she saw him.

Love. What a frightening thing to have, locked up inside you. She leaped off the wall and darted into the shadows.

 

The first stop was Percival's hotel, which would undoubtedly be ransacked shortly if there were, indeed, raids taking place. She hurried up to his rooms, unlocking the door with a password ('violet') and hurrying in. She grabbed up the briefcase Percival had packed and, with some difficulty, shoved it into the small beaded handbag she carried. Placing an extension charm within an extension charm was always risky, but she trusted Percival's talents in building his spells properly.

Next, her hotel room in the No-Maj building. It was unlikely anyone would make their way there before sunrise, if they found out about it at all, but she couldn't take the chance. She went through her rooms, sighing a bit inwardly at the clothes she was leaving behind (some of them brand new). Of the clothes she'd had to pack, only the ones that were specifically Tina, like her trousers and blouses, as well as anything owned by Queenie, had to be gathered. The rest could be left behind. She had never before been emotionally attached to clothing, but some of the items – including the flowered headband Percival had bought for her – she had to admit feeling a pang at leaving behind.

 _You can always replace them_ , she told herself. And from the way Percival had kissed her, who needed jewellery, anyway?

There was a wild knocking at the door, so sudden and unexpected Tina jumped in shock, hand going to her mouth to stifle a shout. She stared warily at the door as the knocking continued.

“Mademoiselle Moon?” came the panicked voice. “It's Roger. Mademoiselle Moon?”

Hand at her hip (close to the slit in her dress which accommodated the pocket for her wand) she stepped over to the door to her suite, and opened it.

The doorman, Roger, looking frazzled, relaxed immediately as soon as he saw her. “Oh, thank goodness,” he said. “Mademoiselle Moon, there have been fires.”

“Oh yes?” she asked, looking carefully uninterested.

“Yes,” he insisted. “There's been one next door to Mercy's. You know, the restaurant? We know you have been there many times. We were all just so worried. You're so kind, Mademoiselle Moon...”

Tina's blood ran cold. Mercy's was a small, boutique restaurant, almost always empty save for a few drunks or old women taking a break from their morning shopping. It was also the entrance to Flight Street. No-Majs knew it was there, but they never went inside – to them, it always appeared closed.

Tina allowed her hand to fly to her chest. “Oh, Roger!” she exclaimed. “What happened?”

“The whole place is in flames, mademoiselle. We realized it was unlikely you'd be there on a night like this, but we worried.”

“I was about to meet Mr Graves there,” she said. “Just now.”

Roger's eyes scanned her very dressed-up appearance, and paled. “Oh, dear.”

“I must go. Oh, Roger, thank you for telling me.”

“Of course, of course. But perhaps you should stay here.”

She worried at her bottom lip with her teeth, appearing conflicted. Finally, she nodded. “You're right,” she said. “I'm sure he's fine. He will come and get me...”

“Most assuredly.”

“I need to lay down. Please don't let me be disturbed unless it is him?”

“You have my word.”

Closing the door and pulling the lock, Tina shook her head. Something was up. Something was happening. She was to meet Percival at an hour to midnight, on Flight Street. But why was the entrance to it on fire? That had not been one of the agreed upon targets. What was going on? Did this have anything to do with the raid at Tobias' home?

There weren't many ways onto Flight Street. You could Floo or Apparate; otherwise, Mercy's was the only entrance. She would have to use one of the other means to get to her rendezvous with Percival. Where they planned on going from there, she had no idea, but that would be dealt with when the time came.

Shoving everything she needed into her beaded handbag, she paused in thought.

The unexpected was occurring. Everything was going wrong. She fingered at the necklace around her neck, freshly picked up that day from The Dame, as well as the violet necklace laying below it.

Where was Kate this evening?

“ _It's enchanted for my touch, I'm the only one who can open it. I'll take good care of your Mr Graves, I promise.”_

She had tried to trust her instincts, but what if they had been wrong? Pure, loving Kate, what if she was even deeper than Mariana or Veronique could ever have expected? Tina felt her stomach plummet at the thought.

Without needing to think about it, she Disapparated. She had to be sure.

 

.

 

Percival was calm. Not because he wasn't worried, or pleased about the events happening around him – it was a studied calm, cultivated after years and years on the job. He surveyed the room and the guests around him, feeling carefully placid as his mind pieced together everything his eyes were reading. Who was nervous, who was frightened, who was too drunk to care. Which musicians had carefully excused themselves, or guests that had slipped away to the backyard and had yet to return. He arranged and stacked and matched up the facts available to him, trying to see them all in different patterns at different distances.

He took a sip of his drink, a fingerbowl of champagne. Careful to keep his senses sharp, stronger stuff like bourbon was left purposefully out of his hands.

Hopefully, Tina was long gone, having slipped off with the rest of the questionable guests. She should be fine; she had direct orders and would stick to them. He just had to wait it out and get away when he could. He told himself this, but something was gnawing at him, working away at his nerves.

Something had possessed him to kiss Tina, an urge that felt too much like _do it while you can_ , and it was frightening. Sweet Merlin, though, it had been a good kiss; a kiss like that could sustain a man for years. It would definitely get him through the night. But Tina?

_Don't worry. She'll be fine. She's always fine._

The arrival of the Aurors was unmistakable; though they didn't make much noise, the sound of chatter from the front area of the house slowly faded. Percival pretended not to notice or care, instead waved down a waiter to take his empty glass and give him a new one.

“Mr Graves,” someone said, behind him. He turned to look at Chief Auror Den Higgles, who was standing there with an air of nonchalance that Percival did not believe for a second. He made no outward sign, but in his mind he felt like curling his lip in slight disdain.

There were promotions based on talent and results, and promotions based on time served. Higgles was of the latter – nearly three decades Percival's senior, his lack of skills irritated the Director nearly beyond comprehension, but he had 'earned' his post as Chief Auror by putting in the hours and there was little Percival could do about it.

There was a reason that, these days, the sharpest young Aurors were assigned to work directly from New York, with a rotating roster of young recruits who trained there for a certain amount of time – Seraphina was worried that without the proper leadership, real talent might be overlooked. Percival Graves, along with being the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, had an eye for talent, skill and hard work, as opposed to Aurors like Higgles, who followed the oldest method possible for promoting and training his Aurors: favouritism.

Standing next to Higgles was Irene Taxley. She was fresh to the force, recently graduated, with potential simmering beneath the surface. Percival had already placed a recommendation to have her trained in New York for three months starting in May, but he doubted anyone besides himself and Picquery knew that.

“Ah,” Percival said, with an idle smirk. “Happy new year's eve, Giggles.”

Higgles glowered. Percival didn't throw rank around often, but when he did he always enjoyed it immensely. “Clever, Director,” he said. “Or is it – Director in limbo?”

“It's not that clever, I'm not the one who came up with it,” Percival said, mildly (Seraphina had in a fit of annoyance, and it had spread like wildfire, though Percival was prepared to take the secret to his grave). “What can I do for you?”

“We're conducting a standard raid on all major wizarding households and establishments. How long have you been here?”

“Can't remember.”

“Who did you arrive with? Perhaps they know.”

“Doubtful.”

“We came in around eight, you silly man,” someone purred in his ear. Damiana Rawley slid her hand over his, tugging his champagne away from him and taking a rather seductive sip. She winked at Trainee Taxley, who blushed bright pink at the attention. She already looked like she didn't know what to do with two of her major superiors sniping at each other, and Damiana was clearly too much for her to handle as well.

If she was using Percival as a cover, then he assumed Dorian Faust had made his escape alongside Tina and many others. He wondered what the other man had to hide.

Higgles glowered. “ _Rawley_?” he said. “Graves, I'd have expected you to have more taste.”

“ _Director_ Graves,” Percival reminded him, gently. “If you must stand on ceremony. Beyond that, Mr Graves is just fine. What's going on here, Higgles?”

“That's none of your-”

“There have been threats on Flight Street, sir,” Taxley said, promptly, talking over Higgles. Technically she was answering a question from someone who was her superior's superior, and that should be acceptable – still, Percival made a mental note to push her transfer up a couple months more, because he doubted his colleague would let that stand. “The entrance has been set aflame. It's starting to spread.”

Damiana's eyebrows leaped up. “ _What_?” she asked, harshly. “Where, exactly, is it spreading? Don't you think that's something that should be common knowledge?”

“Um,” Taxley said.

“ _Why_ is it spreading? Why aren't you there fighting the flame?”

“Because,” Higgles said, loudly, glaring at Damiana, “our first concern is wizarding safety, not property damage. I know for a cutthroat business woman like yourself that's not something you value, but for us, we want to make sure that if there is a threat we can quash it at the source-”

“Very good,” Percival interrupted. “Well done. Quash away. Unfortunately there was a mass exodus of guests about ten minutes ago, so if there is anyone guilty of threatening our safety, they probably ran off the minute you sent that ill-advised warning.”

“It was _not_ -”

“If you knew for certain there was someone here, you would have arrived unexpectedly, to catch them,” he continued. “Meaning – you don't have a suspect, do you? This is fear mongering, Higgles. I've really no interest in taking part in it. But do your job, by all means, I'll just be over here drinking.”

Higgles raised an eyebrow. “You mentioned an exodus,” he said. “So there were suspicious people here the entire time? Why?”

Percival shrugged. “This isn't my party.”

“Yes,” Damiana said, eyes roving over the guests (who were giving them quite a bit of space, now that the Aurors were there). “If it was Percy's party I daresay there'd be more whiskey, maybe a few fan dancers...”

“Why didn't you stop any of them from leaving?”

“I'm on vacation.”

Higgles huffed. “As always, you lack a distinct veneer of professionalism, young man,” he said. “Not like the rest of your family. You know, I ran into your father at a luncheon the other day-”

“Oh, darling, look, there's Fred,” Damiana interrupted, grasping hold of Percival's elbow. “Let's go see if the rumours are true. Good evening, Mr Higgles. Miss Taxley.”

“Oh! Good evening, Madame Rawley,” Taxley said, her surprise that Damiana knew who she was clear on her face. Honestly, Damiana was probably more acquainted with the New Orleans Aurors than Percival himself.

“Who's Fred?” he asked, dryly, as Damiana dragged him away.

Looking at her face, seeing the tension that had suddenly set in – her jaw had tightened, her brows drawn downwards – he thought he knew exactly what was coming and what she was about to propose. This was fine by Percival. He didn't trust her, but two heads were always better than one, especially when you were investigating a fire. He'd planned on leaving anyway, and he knew he wouldn't be able to stop her from doing the same.

“Come on,” she said. “We have to get outside. You can't Disapparate in the house.”

“And what makes you think I wouldn't prefer to just stay here?”

She laughed outright at that – and it was not a kind sound. “Come on, Graves,” she said. “Ever since you were an insolent, gum-chewing rookie, you've always needed to be at the centre of things. Well, that's where we're going, straight to the middle. You've always been handy in a tight spot.”

Percival dug his heels in and pulled his arm back, and she almost overbalanced backwards when they came to a sharp stop. “Wait,” he said. “Answer me one question.”

“What?” she hissed.

“Why are you frightened?”

“I'm not.”

“Alright. Then why are you lying to me about not being frightened?”

Around them, guests were bustling about, some laughing, others scowling. The Aurors were checking wand registrations, asking standard security questions. They weren't going to get very far when half the people they were talking to were drunk; a colossal waste of time, but something which Percival was in no position to remedy at that moment.

Damiana tipped her head to the side. Wisps of hair had escaped from her chignon, highlighting the arch of her cheekbones. “Someone asked me for help,” she said. “And I said no. And now I'm frightened.”

“Alright,” he said. “Let's go.”

 

.

 

The building was dark. And yet, standing at the foot of the stairs leading up to Kate and Veronique's apartment, she knew someone was home.

She ascended quietly, shifting her weight on her feet so as not to send the floorboards creaking. Every muscle in her body was tight, her senses tuned to their highest setting, screaming at her that something was just _not right_.

Sooner than she thought, she was at the door. She had been planning on using an unlocking charm, but the door was slightly ajar. With a dread that seemed baseless yet clung to her very soul, she gently pushed the door open, further, and stepped inside once there was a gap large enough. Somehow, even that felt risky.

It was dark. The curtains were drawn, stopping any light in the street from flooding in through the window. There was a feeling in the air that tickled at her skin, a ghost of a touch. But more than that, it _smelt_ wrong _._ There was a strange, musky scent hovering in the apartment. It was animal, reminding her of the smell within Newt's briefcase, of Newt's own scent. Yet there had been something loving about that smell, of furred creatures who snuggled tight to body warmth, of the musky hint of roosting birds' feathers. This was different; this was sharp and angry. Hungry.

There was a noise, small and slight; a scrape across the ground like something being dragged.

“Lumos,” she whispered.

Illuminated, now, was Kate. She was stretched out upon the ground. Tina didn't need light to know that the dark substance on the other woman was blood. In the shivering glow she noticed the secret cupboard beneath the sideboard had been blasted apart. Anything within had been destroyed, unless it had been emptied first. The latter, most likely. “Kate,” she gasped, hurrying forward and kneeling beside the other witch.

The curtains flapped in a soft, sighing wind. The window must be open, or even broken, letting in the outside air. What had happened here? She wondered. Wand clamped between her teeth, she reached down and slipped a hand around the back of Kate's head, cradling it.

She took hold of her wand again. “Kate, what happened?” she urged. “Kate. Kate!”

The other woman's eyes flickered open. “Geneva,” she gasped. “Where's... Geneva?”

“ _Geneva is hitting the town with Kate – I shudder to think what those two are capable of this evening.”_

“She's not here,” Tina said. “Was she taken? Kate, stay with me. I'll get you help.”

“No,” Kate gasped. “Ana... go...”

The curtains whispered in the wind, again, and Tina remembered it wasn't windy outside. At all.

She squeezed her eyes tight for a moment, and then opened them again, looking down at Kate. She had a terrible gash on her arm, oozing blood and something else, something that smelt burnt.

“I'm staying,” Tina said, sounding bolder than she felt.

Kate shook her head, and then Tina realized her whole body was moving, shuddering and convulsing. “I'm sorry,” she choked. “I'm so sorry, Ana... doll's gone... I'm so sorry...”

“It's not your fault. Hold still! We're going to a doctor.”

It was then that Kate convulsed in a way that defied explanation, practically leaping out of Tina's arms and flipping over onto her stomach.

It was hard to watch and even harder to stomach. The air suddenly grew cold and the curtains flapped, loud and angry. The shadows pulled forward, like liquid, slowly extinguishing the light from Tina's wand – and there was a soft, breathing sound, like someone standing just out of sight, panting softly, laying ghostly hands on the back of her neck.

Kate contorted and vomited onto the floor. It smelt of acid and blood and dead, decaying things, and Tina recoiled at first, before she felt frozen in place. For Kate was throwing up darkness, a black and oozy material that wriggled on the floor and rolled about, like some kind of clay, or a mass of insects. It twisted and shuddered and coalesced into a long, thin object, before coiling upward, like a cobra rearing its head.

Only it wasn't a snake. A snake would have been bearable. This _thing_ had a flat and tapered head with a ragged jaw, and innumerable coiling, twisting, tentacle-like arms sprouting from its sides, like some kind of malformed centipede. Its jaws spread wide and it made a _sound_ that caused revulsion to crawl up Tina's throat. Horrifyingly enough, it had no eyes, none that she could see.

She had never been more terrified in her life.

Then it struck.

She twisted to the right, throwing herself onto her side and then rolling away. Its body, like a long and oozing scab, writhed and prepared to strike again. Tina slashed her wand upwards, calling up more light, and the creature hissed and veered back. Her left hand found the knife in its sheath on her thigh and she clutched that too, leaping up from her knees to the balls of her feet.

“Come on,” she growled, ready with both hands to fight. “Come on!”

It struck again, and again Tina veered away. The darkness in the apartment was crowding closer, and it was then she understood it was not just shadow but a real and physical thing, pressing in. The apartment creaked all around her and somehow she knew the darkness was eating away at its surroundings like acid, that soon the apartment would collapse in on itself, perhaps the entire building along with it. She ought to leave. She ought to just Disapparate.

But there was a woman lying motionless on the floor, and she looked small and sad, like a rag doll, and Tina absolutely could not leave her. This was Dark magic. This was what she had spent her whole adult life preparing to fight.

She whipped her wand to the side in another slash and threw spell after spell. Spells to cut, to blast, to disintegrate, but she could not tell if the creature was immune or simply dodged each one. And with every spell Tina was aware that Kate was losing time. _Oh Merlin, what_ _if_ _this creature_ is _Kate?_ _How_ _d_ _o I beat it then?_

The creature screamed and the curtains flew open, revealing a dark and murky sky beyond, the sky of New Orleans, unencumbered by glass. Whoever had gotten into the apartment had probably come in through the window, and possibly gone back out again.

Kate coughed, a pitiful and wheezing sound. The voodoo doll was gone, the apartment was in shambles. They didn't have much time. _Do what you need to do, Tina_ , she told herself. _Make the decision you'd make all over again, if you had to._

She charged forward and then darted to the side, avoiding yet another strike. The creature was growing, becoming longer and longer, gathering the darkness around it, its whirling legs pulsing and growing, its jaws gaping open. She swept her knife horizontally and felt the resistance of it cutting into soft mass, heard the scream of pain, and called up the light again, brighter and stronger.

“Lumos Maxima!”

The light filled the apartment with the burning strength of the sun. She didn't have time to do a lightweight spell on the other woman, she had to move fast, but Tina didn't know where she got the strength; she just grabbed at Kate, hauling the other witch up by her arms, and hurled the both of them out of the window, towards the street.

 

.

 

The smoke was everywhere.

Percival and Damiana shoved themselves through the crowd. “It was the No-Majs that did it!” someone was crying. “They've found us out, they're attacking us!”

“It's magical fire, fool,” another one spat. “Otherwise it'd have been put out!”

Crowds were dangerous; they were like a sleeping beast, ineffectual until it was roused into panic or rage, and then things turned disastrous. Percival cast his eyes about, and was relieved at seeing the leather coats of several of his New York Aurors, calming the crowd. Presumably, more of them were dealing with the blaze. If he needed them, he could call them, but not before he was certain. Now was not the time to hail them or otherwise catch their attention; his main goal had to be to find out what was happening, figure out if his rendezvous spot with Tina was safe, and tag along with Damiana. If she wasn't involved in this in some way, he'd eat his favourite necktie.

They had Apparated half a block down from the entrance to Flight Street, and already smoke was billowing up into the night sky even from there. Either members of Mariana and Stephan Sully's team had gone rogue, or this was another faction of political rebels or criminals with an as of yet unknown purpose. In any case, the thought was chilling.

The rest of Flight Street appeared untouched for now, but Percival wasn't fooled. In fact, the danger was likely about to increase sevenfold. “They should be evacuating,” he growled under his breath, pushing his way past several witches and wizards watching the blaze, bright even halfway down the block. Such action would result in a lot of oddly dressed people out on the No-Maj streets, but surely that was safer than the alternative happening before him. “What are they thinking?”

“If they're following the orders of the Chief Auror, then nothing,” Damiana said, grimly, at his shoulder.

Percival just grimaced. Again, there was nothing he could do – Director or not he _was_ on leave and walking in to take a controlling position would simply upset and confuse the Aurors, who needed focus right now. So long as they were able to disperse the crowd, that was the main thing; Percival had a feeling the fire was a way to gather everyone in one place. Whether for good or ill, he couldn't be sure, but he hoped his people were up to the task while he was otherwise engaged.

Clear of the crowd, the two of them broke into a sharp run, heading down towards The Dame. He didn't even need to ask; it was obvious where she wanted to go, and he was curious as well. It was possible she had been lying to him, but he knew fear, and she had it – and he would get to the bottom of it.

They passed his rendezvous point with Tina at #2281, a former apothecary that was now empty, its windows filled with newsprint. At the corner they took a sharp right down one of the side streets, where The Dame lay. They slowed, stopping at the bookstore right next to The Dame.

Like most places almost everything on the street was closed for the holiday, though across the lane and four doors down music was spilling out of the door leading to a basement club, so the area was far from silent or empty.

Wondering what Damiana expected to find, he stuck close to her shoulder. Warily, he kept his senses stretched outward, listening intently, suspecting there may be another attack if they weren't careful. Perhaps the fire was a way to draw the majority of people away; if Damiana was a target, then it would be easier to destroy her store if most everyone else was off the block or underground.

Damiana looked at her shop with narrowed eyes, and then continued to walk until she stood in front of it, in the middle of the cobbled lane. She held her wand loosely in her hand.

“Rawley,” he hissed, from the shadows. “What the Hell are you doing?”

“There's someone in there.”

“We'll alert the Aurors.”

Damiana raised her wand, “ _You're_ an Auror,” she said, coolly.

Percival drew his wand, but he was too slow; before he could immobilize her, she had sent a curse straight through the window of her own store.

The sound of shattering glass was loud but oddly musical. Damiana, every inch the lady of crime all the MACUSA documents painted her out as, swung her wand about, deflecting spell after spell that streaked out from The Dame and right at her.

Cursing under his breath – though he couldn't say he was surprised at this turn of events – Percival darted down the side alley, no more than a narrow gap between the two buildings. He sent a wisp of magic off over his shoulder, where it would find and alert the nearest Auror that they were needed. There was no message, but it would lead his people back to his location once they got the alarm.

In the back alley he didn't bother with any fancy unlocking spell, just blasted the back door apart and charged inside. As much as she had stepped into danger, Percival didn't intend to let Damiana Rawley get slaughtered on his watch, and whoever was in her shop _was_ breaking the law. He just hoped it would be a manageable number of trespassers; and if not, hopefully the Aurors would get the message soon.

Percival had used the back entrance only once before, and it had been nearly eight years ago. Not much, however, had changed. There was a small anteroom he darted into which was full of bundles of drying herbs, strings of stones. Beyond that, robes and footwear. He ignored all of it, not caring if his clothes snagged on anything and alerted anyone to his presence. Damiana had taken their moment of surprise and used it on her own terms, and now their best chance was speed and ferocity.

He tore through the beaded curtain leading into the front of the shop and immediately dove downwards, coming up in a roll against the back counter while a volley of spells shattered their way along the wall where he had been standing a split second before.

He pointed his wand towards his throat. “Lay down your weapons and you will be taken into protective MACUSA custody,” he shouted, his voice enhanced to reverberate through the shop. Then he darted to the side right before another mass of spells thudded against the counter, unnervingly close to where he had just been.

That better not be Damiana firing at him, or she _would_ be going to jail this time.

For a moment he considered the ring worn on his pinky finger, which Tina had given to him earlier that day. Using the darkness powder was tempting, but he couldn't do it, not yet, not without getting a good look at the thieves.

Someone else might have found it difficult to think through their situation with the building practically shattering around them, but Percival was experienced. Even when a large jade statue of a dragon slammed to the ground next to him, barely missing his skull, he didn't flinch, just considered his options. _Where_ were his Aurors? Someone ought to have responded to the call for aid by now.

Suddenly, without warning, everything went still. The spells ended, the shop stopped shuddering. He could only assume Damiana had ducked into hiding somewhere and was planning her next move. There was a crash as something delicate fell to the floor in the aftermath of the fight, but beyond that, all was quiet.

“There's no use in hiding, Director.” the voice was a mess, going up and down, switching from male to female. A voice-changing spell. “We've already got what we want.”

“Then maybe you should go,” Percival suggested, using magic to bounce his voice around, so it would be difficult to pinpoint where he was crouched. “I can clean up here.”

The laughter was cruel, but – oddly familiar?

“I'm going to bill you bastards for this damage!” Ah, that was Damiana, hidden somewhere in the – rafters, from the sound of it? Merlin, she was terrifying. Too bad she had decided independent business was more rewarding than joining MACUSA.

“You brought this on yourself, Rawley!” one of the interlopers shouted. “You asked for this. You can't say no to people like us.”

“No!” she shouted. “No, no, no, no, no! Look at that, I'm saying _no_!”

“Not for long,” they replied. “Where's that pretty daughter of yours? How about your twins?”

And just like that, the firefight started again. Splinters rained down on Percival's head. His Aurors weren't there yet, he didn't know when they would arrive, and he couldn't let Damiana fight on her own – not only would she possibly kill the suspects, she might be killed herself. That offended both his sensibilities as an investigator in which she possibly held key information to his case, and his sensibilities as a man with a strict moral code.

He readied himself into position, glancing up, watching the beams of light arcing above his head, this way, that way – able to track their trajectories with his eyes. Then, figuring out where he was best in the clear, he leaped up and threw himself over the counter.

He rolled on his side over the counter and touched down lightly on the ground, sweeping a shielding spell around him as he straightened up, reflecting back half a dozen spells before firing off his own. The Dame was in darkness save for the magic ripping through, making it nearly impossible to see, but he could tell there were three of them, dark, flickering shapes in the deeper darkness of the store. Items shattered against his shield as dozens of them were thrown at him, but to Percival that was easy enough to counter.

With a whip of his wand he sent an entire bookshelf careening towards one of them; it blasted apart around them while the other two fired beams of red light, before being distracted by spells Damiana was volleying from somewhere in the ceiling.

Then his shield spell cracked and shattered.

Throwing his arm up, Percival was able to magically block two of three spells – the third seared past his ear, and he smelt scorched fabric, but at least his head wasn't on fire. He rolled on his heel and took refuge behind an empty sarcophagus, his mind churning.

That shield spell had been invented four decades ago by Auror Bingley, who had contributed more than his fair share of defensive spells to be used by MACUSA's law enforcement. These days it was one of the first spells Auror trainees learned for its strength and usefulness, and while it was difficult to produce under duress it was nearly impossible to take down.

Except by the Afflicio charm, also invented by Bingley, and a staple spell for second tier Aurors.

Percival grit his teeth and readied himself.

There was a blast and the head of the sarcophagus was turned to dust.

Percival stepped to the side and swung his wand high, sending a punch of magic directly at the ceiling.

Wood cracked and bulged and split, detritus crashed down and the whole building groaned and then, suddenly, there was sky. Damiana was shouting in alarm and, he thought, protest, perhaps thinking he had been aiming for her.

“Get out, Rawley,” he shouted. “You have to get out of here!”

“Perci-”

She was drowned out by the shriek of magic.

Percival parried each spell with grace – he'd definitely faced worse odds than three on one in his career – but his mind was churning with the facts before him and he knew now that this couldn't be a standard duel, not anymore.

“Out, Rawley!” he yelled.

In the corner of his eye he saw her leap out from a crevice in the damaged roof and spread her arms wide – and then, as if she were a kite caught beneath a gust of wind, she swooped upwards and out of sight. Just in time – a spell shot out after her, sealing the roof behind her. She was out, but he was stuck.

“Out with the old, in with the new, Director!” came the singsong voice, still altered, flinging up and down different tones. With a sense of urgency Percival blasted forward and aside several still-standing pieces of furniture, and sprinted for the front of the shop.

He swept aside and halted every offensive spell save for one, which with a loud bang thudded into his shoulder, making him stumble back a step. He could only assume he had stopped most of it, since he was still upright, and without another thought took advantage of the moment to throw a halting spell in front of him.

Despite his speed, though, he was still outnumbered, and his spells came too late. The three intruders were gone in a blast of broken furniture, but they had left behind a silvery shield. It smoothed out over the doorway, the shattered windows, the wall, sweeping past him and slipping through to the back of the building. He knew what kind of spell it was; he was effectively sealed in, locking him in from the inside.

He smelt smoke.

“Director Graves.” This time the voice came from out on the street, and was normal, and familiar. Percival stepped forward to peer out the window and saw a half dozen Aurors standing there, wands drawn in the streetlight. “Step out and hand over your wand. You are hereby under arrest for the looting and destruction of The Dame and suspected arson of Flight Street, as well as arson within the No-Maj districts of New Orleans.”

The scent of smoke was stronger now. He didn't have to look behind him to know that the shop was slowly catching fire; another problem the intruders had left for him. Whether the fire took him or he was arrested, they were certainly better off. Bastards.

“Director Graves,” came the voice again. It was Sebastian Vidal, one of his Aurors from New York. A good man, Sebastian. He was going to get married in June... “Please, come out. We don't want to harm you.”

His shoulder ached, burned in fact. Percival touched it without thinking and practically jumped in surprise when his fingertips came back wet. _Oh_ , he thought, looking down. That hadn't been a spell he'd failed to block.

He'd been shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So can I just say - CAN I JUST SAY - the comments I have been getting for this story are LITERALLY BLOWING MY MIND, I cannot explain just how wonderful your support and feedback makes me feel. No, seriously. I have been writing HP fanfic for _a long time_ and I can't remember the last time I had this much fun with it. So thank you SO SO MUCH YOU HAVE MY ETERNAL LOVE. Our pairing may be little, but our love for it is fierce, ayyy!
> 
> Other stuff: so I add to the story tags on occasion, just to deal with the crazy stuff happening or soon to happen and to give y'all some warning. Like I said in chapter one, weird shit is on the roster and this chapter was no exception. More character and event tags may pop up, including a possible jump in the rating from Mature to Explicit.  
> "insolent, gum-chewing rookie" = Colin in Minority Report. Whenever I watch it now all I see is a young, sassy Graves (who sometimes wears glasses). Added movie bonus: Mary Lou Barebone living in a vat of nutrients and shouting at Tom Cruise to steal an umbrella.
> 
> Also yeah sorry I shot Percival HA KIDDING, NOT SORRY AT ALL


	11. midnight in georgia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many original characters and random backstory in this. So many. So much.

Tina had never Disapparated midair before, but she knew, in theory, it would work. That was all she had to go on.

She took the brunt of the fall, landing on her back on the cobblestones of Flight Street, her head knocking painfully against the ground. She did it on purpose, cushioning the fall for Kate. The other witch was heavy and inhumanly hot, and Tina did her best to push her off as gently as she could, rolling over, cradling the back of her head.

“Kate!” she gasped. “Kate, are you with me?” She slapped the other witch's cheek. Tina was surprised to find she was crying over the other woman, hot and wet on her cheeks. Tears from Tina, or tears from Mariana? What was the difference anymore?

“Help!” she began to scream, when Kate didn't stir. “Help me!” People were running past, but no one stopped. Tina blinked back her tears and looked up at the building in front of her: #2281. Was it eleven yet? It had to be close. But she couldn't wait for Percival.

She tried to use basic first aid, but none of the spells seemed to knit up the wound Kate bore on her arm, or revive her – though she was still breathing, thank Merlin. She slapped Kate again. “Wake up,” she begged, shaking the other witch by the shoulders. “Wake up!”

A pair of shiny black heels touched down beside her.

“Move,” Damiana Rawley said, coldly, shoving Mariana aside. She tumbled back onto the cobblestones and watched as Damiana placed her hand to the wound, trying to stem the sluggish flow of blood. The scent of burning flesh was stronger with just that simple movement, like it was searing Damiana's skin, but not a hint of pain crossed the woman's face.

“She needs help,” Mariana demanded.

Damiana looked at her. Her eyes were dark and frightening. “Your man needs help,” she countered. Her tone was sharp enough to cut. “If you feel even an ounce of affection for him at all, you will go to him. If not, then flee. Either way, get out of my sight.”

Tina scrambled to her knees. “Where is he?” she growled.

“At my shop.”

Tina didn't need to be told twice. She ran.

 

.

 

“Director, submit now, or we will use extreme force.”

Percival reached out to gently place his hand against the protection spell; it did nothing but send a few tingles down his arm. As expected it was defensive, built to look as if Percival was blocking himself in, rather than him being kept there against his will. It would be easier to break from the inside; waiting wasn't an option, he couldn't be sure if his Aurors would be able to blast through before the fire took him.

Unfortunately, the very makeup of the shield told him it was self-repairing. He could blow a hole in it, but it had to be a strong enough blast, and the opening would only remain for a few seconds.

He moved his hand over the shield, looking for weak spots. His other hand he left motionless at his side, not wanting to disturb his wound overmuch, not while he didn't have to.

 _There_ , two spots where the magic didn't knit together quite so tightly. Swapping his wand to his uninjured side – not his dominant wand hand, but it would have to do – he readied himself.

“Director!”

“I'm coming out, Vidal!” he called out. “I'm just lowering the shield.”

He watched the outlines of the Aurors ready themselves for him. Which one of them had betrayed him? Which one had trapped him in here mere minutes ago?

A problem to solve at another time, when he didn't feel blood dripping down his palm, or the heat of fire on the back of his neck. Soon, there wouldn't be enough air to breathe.

The pain in his shoulder was dull, but Percival knew that was likely because of adrenaline and the action of the moment, allowing him to focus his energy on other things. He couldn't rely on it to last forever. He had to get out, as quickly as he could... he had to find Tina, they had to get out of there.

He looked at the shapes of his Aurors standing outside. They had taken up a defensive formation, hard to break through. Damn it all. He drew his wand back, building up energy. The fire was spreading, devouring the tumbled furniture, crawling across spilt books. Time was of the essence, but he only had one shot at this to do it right the first time, maintain the element of surprise.

_The air is getting damn thin in here._

“Last chance, Director,” Vidal called. The Aurors shifted, subtly changing formation – offensive stance, now. “We're coming in. Three, two-”

Percival threw his arm forward, like he was lobbing a ball; the bundle of energy shrieked as it slammed against the shield, blasting and eating away at it. Using the momentum of the motion he threw himself forward, ducking his head and tucking his knees up to get through the rapidly-shrinking hole in the shield. He hit the cobblestones in a roll and came up to his feet, his shoulder screaming in protest.

Ignoring it, he swung his bare and bloody hand around, using a burst of wandless magic to grip up one of his Aurors and throw her against two others.

“Director!” Vidal was shouting. “Submit!”

Percival didn't waste words in replying. He had to get clear, he had to get to Tina. The hour was nearly upon them. He _would_ find her.

 

.

 

Turning the corner Tina skidded to a stop, almost fell over in shock. At the end of the lane was Percival Graves, standing before Damiana's store, which was up in flames. And he wasn't alone. Everything told her to run forward and fight, to defend him, but she recognized those coats, and some of the wearers she knew personally. Her former coworkers in New York, all of them darting about, wands raised, spells crashing all over the street; every single one of them trying to take down the Director.

It was both a strange and frightening scenario, as well as a chillingly familiar one. She remembered seeing Grindelwald fight off the Aurors in the New York subway. He'd done it with a terrifying competence – blocking, deflecting, and throwing spells of his own all at once, neatly taking out each of her coworkers until he was caught by surprise with the Swooping Evil. None of that had seemed difficult to him, like he had just been playing a game, and his arrogance had caused him to let his guard down as he passed Newt and Tina by. If it weren't for them, he might have engaged in the President herself.

The real Percival Graves was different, and Tina realized she had never seen him in his element like this before. It wasn't just his wand or the spells but his entire body that moved, like he had transformed himself into a living weapon. Unlike Grindelwald who had been unnerving in his stillness, Percival Graves never stopped moving. Dodging, leaping, he avoided just as many spells as he blocked, and sent only a fraction of his own.

 _He doesn't want to hurt anyone_ , she realized. He was on maximum defence and minimum offence. Whatever was happening was a massive misunderstanding, and he was trying to get clear without injuring any of his people.

He twisted and spun, wand sweeping through the air, and Tina felt her jaw drop. A length of flame had appeared from the tip of his wand, bright and fiery, which snapped whip-like in the air in long and swooping movements that were both graceful and quick. He seemed to control it with both his wand and his free hand, causing it to lash about, knocking Aurors aside, cutting down spells. Any time it made contact with other magic it sparked and embers fell all about him, like stars bursting.

It was deadly and terrifying and impressive and absolutely beautiful.

Shutting her mouth with a click of her teeth Tina sprinted forward, wand drawn, hand to her necklace. There was no doubt about it, she had to move quick if she was going to help him and avoid anyone getting seriously hurt – and to prevent them from recognizing her for who she was, rather than the woman she was pretending to be. Thankfully, all of that could be solved with a bit of darkness.

She broke off a crumbling bead of Peruvian darkness and threw it ahead of her. Powdery explosions of black nothingness began to blot out the street, obscuring even the fiery lash of Percival's spell.

He whirled, the whip following, but she caught his eye just in time before the darkness covered them. She felt the whip disintegrate right before it touched her, sending a warm, ticklish sensation down her arm instead of searing her. With a trust born of loyalty and affection she threw herself at him and they collided, his arms immediately wrapping around her. “Hold on,” he growled, and suddenly they were falling through nothingness.

She clutched tight to him, her eyes closed. There was nothing beneath her feet, in fact there was nothing save for Percival. She had only Apparated alongside someone else once in her life and she had forgotten how unreal and strange the sensation was, feeling like her inner organs were being pulled everywhere at once, an unending whirl in her brain like she was spinning in a circle, as she used to when she was a child – arms outstretched, not a care in the world, heedless of consequences.

She focused her mind on him, lest she get splinched. _I am with him_ , she intoned in her mind. _Wherever he goes, I go. Wherever he is, I am._

They thudded down onto grass. He let out a gasp.

The air was cool and sweet, the grass dark and wet with evening. But there was colour too, splashes of it glowing from the heavens, punctuated by pops and fizzles and bangs, huge and thundering. She looked up at the sky to see a huge phoenix, glittering red and gold, throwing wide its wings and screaming out joyously into the night.

“Tina,” Percival said, underneath her, “please get off me.”

“Sorry,” she said, scrambling off of him. They must have Apparated through into a different part of the country – here, The New Year had already begun, the sky raining with fireworks. Looking around she noticed they were nowhere populated – rather her gaze was met by countryside, rolling and picturesque, and while it wasn't warm it wasn't freezing either; clearly they were still in the South. There was, far off, a glow of many fires, and laughter and music reached them even there.

“Where are we?” she asked, reaching down to give him a hand, but looking away. The front of her dress was cold; it took her a moment to realize there was a wet spot going from her shoulder over her entire left breast.

He gripped her hand, heaving himself upright a bit more heavily than he might have normally. “Georgia,” he grunted.

Reality snapped quickly into focus as she slotted the puzzle together. She immediately thrust her hand against his shoulder and he gave a pained growl, but all she did was grab his wand from him to free up his other hand. “Apply pressure,” she ordered. Thankfully he did just that instead of complaining, gritting his teeth. “I assume you brought us close to someone who can help?”

He nodded in the opposite direction of the outdoor party, towards dark tree cover. She could just make out a path, winding on through, slightly pale against the darkness. Colour continued to rain all around them. “There's a house at the end of that path,” he said. “Hopefully someone's home.”

Thankfully, it wasn't that long to walk. Percival refused any assistance, which annoyed her – and it was easier to feel annoyed than worried. But she supposed if he could still walk and be cranky with her then that was a good sign. She had no idea what had happened, only that he was bleeding.

The house before them loomed from beyond a gathering of trees on which rope swings were tied, its windows bright golden with inner light. Good, people were home. Even though she was rather preoccupied she noticed the second storey with its own verandah, the plants creeping up the walls, the scent of lemons in the air. It was a gentle, calming place.

She knocked. Well, alright, she banged on the door, but she was starting to feel some panic set in as Percival swayed beside her.

The door flung open almost immediately and there was a woman standing there. She was very beautiful, dark-skinned with long, gleaming hair flowing around her face. Her piercing eyes raked over Tina before landing on Percival.

“Bring him in,” she said abruptly, turning and disappearing into the house. She wore an intricate houserobe that came off her shoulders, making her look both sultry and demure.

Tina let Percival go in before her, shutting the door behind them both. There was a long hallway leading straight through the middle of the house, with a sitting room to the left and stairs going up to the right. At the end of the hall was what looked like the kitchen, which the other woman had just entered, roughly slamming a kettle on the stove and lighting it with her wand.

“Hustle,” she snapped down the hallway as they walked towards her. “Before you bleed all over my nice rugs, you fool.”

Tina dragged a chair away from the kitchen table for Percival to sit; he did so heavily, hand still pressed to his shoulder. “It's not that bad,” he said. “Don't be so dramatic.”

“I am the least dramatic person in your life and you know it,” she muttered, reaching down to undo several of the buttons on his waistcoat. Brusquely, she glanced at Tina. “Scissors in the drawer by the fridge, dear. We're going to have to cut him out of this.”

She nodded, darting over to the aforementioned fridge.

“Hollis!” the woman called. “Get down here, baby.”

Hurriedly, Tina brought the scissors to the woman, while the thunder of feet on the stairs heralded the appearance of a young boy, about seven. He was skinny as a rail and stared at Percival with wide eyes. “What's wrong, mama?”

“Same thing that's wrong with your daddy, baby,” his mother said, dryly. “Just too full of himself he's gone and burst a seam. Go along and get him and your sister, they should be out by the fireworks. Quick as you can, now!”

She turned to Tina and pushed the scissors back towards her. “Cut away what you can,” she said. “I'll get towels. You want a drink, honey? Steel the nerves?”

“Um,” Tina said, still clutching the scissors but not yet putting them to use. “I'm sorry, but who are you?”

“This is Gloria,” Percival said, very unhelpfully. “ _I_ could use a drink, you know.”

“You could use a bit of sense,” she shot back. Her expression softened when she looked at Tina. “I married his idiot of a friend, who just so happens to be a physician,” she explained. “Of course he might be drunk by now, but this might sober him up. Perce isn't dying, at any rate, so we can wait for the doctor to be in. I'll be right back.” She swept out of the kitchen.

Turning to Percival, Tina and him locked eyes for a moment. There was a strange feeling floating in her throat, like she couldn't decide if this was hilarious or frightening. She didn't know _how_ to feel or what to feel with what was before her.

He touched the back of her wrist, startling her – at some point her gaze had drifted from him and had fixated on the wall. His touch left behind a dab of blood on her skin. “Come on, Tina,” he said, gently. “I need your help.”

Everything slid into focus again. She'd figure out how to feel later. “I'm sorry,” she said, beginning to cut away, first at the tuxedo jacket, and then through all the layers underneath until she was snipping at his undershirt. “This looks expensive.”

 

Gloria's husband was Antoine. He was tall and slender, with one of the most pleasing faces she had ever seen: he had a wide smile, beautiful features, and the warmest brown eyes. It took about a quarter of an hour for him to arrive, having Apparated home the moment Hollis got to him, and the minute he was there he began attending to Percival.

Along with his son he had a daughter in tow. She looked to be about fifteen or sixteen and had a large head of curly hair which surrounded her pretty face. It was only when seeing her – young, lacking any makeup, her lips in a thin and concerned line – that it all clicked for Tina. Gloria was Seraphina Picquery's sister, and her eldest daughter was the spitting image of the President as a girl.

It was weird and confusing and every fibre of her being wanted to stand on ceremony, but Gloria wouldn't allow it. She reminded Tina of her own mother, before she'd passed away – stern, unflinching, yet unfailingly loving. The commotion had caused an endless amount of children to appear underfoot; Gloria managed them effortlessly, sending two to make up some beds in the living room, another back to bed, another to read a story to the children in bed, on and on and on. Tina had no idea how many children the woman had, but she was mightily impressed.

Antoine had pulled a chair out next to Percival, nosing around in the wound with a pair of tweezers. Tina tried not to focus on the grimace Percival wore, instead turned away and asked Gloria if she needed help with anything.

The other woman gave her a mild smile. “Let's pour that drink,” she said. “You're one of his Aurors?”

“Reinstated but – yes, yes I am.”

“If you're working with that man, you've earned one.” With a wave of her wand Gloria opened a tall cupboard, presumably the one out of reach of the children, and a clear, sparkling bottle floated down towards them. Then she nodded over her shoulder, indicating Tina follow her into the adjacent room.

“You're lucky,” Antoine was saying as they passed; there was a _ting_ sound as he dropped something metal into the bowl his daughter was holding out for him. “Missed everything major.”

“Still hurts like Hell,” Percival said, his voice faint.

“I've got a few potions. Those and some essence of Dittany ought to fix you right up.”

Gold-etched glasses settled themselves on a coffee table, and several slices of lemon floated in and muddled themselves in them. “Gin,” Gloria explained, as generous splashes were poured into each glass, along with a few cubes of ice. “Brew it myself. We like to say there's healing properties; really it just tastes fine.”

Tina sat down on the couch, suddenly very aware that she was sitting beside the President's sister, drinking gin with bloodied hands. To distract herself she let her eyes wander. It was a humble but well-appointed room, filled with heirlooms that had been clearly lived in. Several pictures on the wall caught her eye.

“Is that...”

“We all went to school together,” Gloria said, waving the photo towards her. It floated into Tina's hands; Gloria didn't seem to mind she was leaving smudgy, bloody fingerprints on the frame. “Me, Antoine, and Percival. Same house, same year. That was taken at Antoine's parents' home, we spent half the summer there when we were sixteen.”

Tina smiled down at the photograph. “He looks so young,” she began, before stopping herself, blushing; but Gloria just laughed at her.

“Guess we all were,” she said, fondly. “He had an old soul, though. Not like Antoine – forever young, that man.”

“Gloria.”

At her husband's voice, she straightened upright, immediately alert, before springing to her feet. Tina set the photo down and followed, still clutching her glass of gin.

“Uncle Percy isn't healing,” Gloria's daughter said, with a worried look. Antoine was frowning down at Percival's shoulder.

“Stop poking at it,” Percival grit out. “Or I'm going to throw up on you.”

“Like Hell you will,” Gloria said. “Ride it out, boy.”

“He's not responding to anything,” Antoine said. “I have better resources at the hospital. I can pack it for now and at first light-”

“No,” Percival snapped. “No hospitals.”

Since she had arrived there, Tina had had the sensation of floating on the edge of discourse – not being needed but unwilling to leave, she had hovered, done what she was asked, kept her distance. But now as she watched the three old friends arguing, Gloria's daughter frowning, and all those other details – bloodied towels, a bowl of reddish water, the sharp smell of Dittany and other herbs – Tina found her place.

She stepped forward and, peering into a small ceramic bowl, saw the bloodied round that Antoine had dug out of Percival's shoulder. She picked it up between forefinger and thumb and scrutinized it; it gave off a strange, murky sensation, and when she set it down realized her fingertips were numb.

“What is it, Tina?” Percival asked. She looked up and saw he was watching her closely.

She stepped forward, holding out her glass of gin and lemon to him. “Here,” she said, instead of answering. “Drink that and let me look.”

Antoine frowned, but stepped aside. Tina stood behind Percival, at his shoulder; picking up a clean towel, she wet it with warm water and then, gently pressing on his neck to let him know what she was about to do, cleaned away some of the clotted blood.

Thankfully, the bleeding had been stemmed, but what Antoine had said was true – Percival hadn't responded to any of the healing salves, their residue still on his skin and doing absolutely nothing. She frowned, then, as gently as she could, pressed her fingers into the bullet hole.

She heard Percival hiss before taking a large gulp of gin, but she quickly drew her hand away so he wasn't in discomfort for long. “Sir,” she said, carefully. “I think it was a Clanx gun.”

“A what?” Antoine asked, brow furrowing.

“It was this invention by a conwizard named Claude Clanx,” Tina explained. “He made about two dozen of these guns with silver bullets to hunt werewolves, which didn't work obviously, but they were riddled with curses and dark magic and just caused havoc for about five months in 1871. They would backfire on their owners, or shoot by themselves, things like that. MACUSA ended up confiscating them all. We used to have them in the evidence vaults in New York until about five years ago when they all went missing during a routine cleaning. They've been popping up ever since, being resold as antiques. It was one of the cases they had me study in school.”

“And here I thought scholarship was a dead art,” Percival said, dryly. “But that sounds about right. Clanx was infamous for tampering with No-Maj inventions. I'm sure if you go through the files those guns were known for inflicting some hard-to-repair damage.”

Tina waved Antoine closer. “See, the skin is raw here? Doesn't Dittany react to silver?”

Antoine nodded. “It does,” he affirmed. “We use a mixture of it to seal werewolf bites.”

Gloria crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at Percival. “So someone wanted to put you down for good,” she said. “You're stuck trying to heal yourself like any other No-Maj. It was the Devil's luck you didn't get shot in the head.”

The sound of ice hitting empty glass told Tina that Percival had finished off her drink for her. “Not the first time,” he said. “Antoine, just patch it up and made sure I don't bleed out. We can figure something out in the morning.”

Gloria opened her mouth, then closed it and shook her head, before catching Tina's eye. For a moment she was confused why the other woman was staring at her, until Gloria dipped her chin lower in indication. Following her gaze, Tina looked down and saw she had slipped her hand down the other side of Percival's neck, unconsciously rubbing her thumb at the base of his ear. Alarmed, she drew back, and stepped aside to allow Antoine to once again look at his patient.

 

The smell of hot chocolate was filling the kitchen. Gloria had decided to make a batch, since some of the children still would not sleep. Apparently, half of the brood had been tucked into bed, exhausted before the New Year had even struck, and Gloria had stayed to mind the house while Antoine took their daughter Nora, the only one old enough, out to see the town fireworks. And, it was suggested, one of the local boys. But once Tina and Percival had arrived, sleep was the last thing on everyone's minds.

Gloria headed up to the bedrooms to 'settle everyone down', mugs floating in her wake, but the kitchen was still fragrant with chocolate and cinnamon by the time Antoine was finishing up the bandaging.

“Where did you learn to treat injuries like this?” Tina asked, watching him work. She felt easier about Percival, seeing how competent the doctor's hands were. Either Gloria was joking about Antoine having drinks that night, he had taken a sobering potion, or he was just this competent, always. “I can't imagine you get a lot of bullet holes at your hospital.”

“At St. Vincent's? No,” Antoine said, easily. “But I served as a medic in the Great War.”

Seeing some of Tina's confusion on her face, he laughed. “I broke the law, often,” he explained. “American laws. But in Europe I just couldn't bring myself to care. I worked in the tents, France mostly, saving who I could – witches and wizards, yes, but No-Majs too. Wherever I was needed. There wasn't much I could do for some of those poor souls with all the nurses watching, but I did the best I could. Got labelled a traitor quite a few times for not working wholly with my own kind. But that was a long time ago, my sister-in-law is the President, and this fool owes me too many favours to arrest me, so I think I'm in the clear. Hm. Alright, I think we're all done here. Thanks for not throwing up on me, Perce.”

Nora set a steaming cup of tea in front of Percival. “That should help with the pain, Uncle Percy,” she said. “Mama says if you don't drink it I get to throw it in your lap.”

“Hrm,” Percival said, and picked up the teacup without another word, taking a sip.

“You should go to bed,” Antoine said, reaching for Nora's hand and squeezing it. “Thank you for giving me a hand.”

She appeared to hesitate, then nodded, leaning down to kiss her father goodnight. Tina was tickled to see her do the same with Percival. “Goodnight dad, Uncle Percy. Tina,” she added, throwing a smile in her direction.

“Goodnight,” Tina said.

“Think she's angry I ruined her evening?” Percival asked, experimentally flexing his fingers, and then wincing.

Antoine began to clear up the table, shrugging. “Doubt it. Disappointed, maybe, but she sees that boy often enough at Ilvermorny.”

“Yes, but there she's properly chaperoned.”

“I'm an _excellent_ chaperone,” Antoine countered. “How does that tea taste?”

Percival made a face. “Like ditchwater,” he replied, draining the cup.

“Good,” Antoine said. “That ought to knock you out for a solid six hours, at least. They've done up the couches in the front room.”

Tina got to her feet. “Come on, sir,” she said, holding out her hand.

She was pleased that, instead of shrugging away her help, he took her hand. But maybe it was just so he could twine his fingers around hers. He had a working man's hands, rough at the pads with callouses, and she enjoyed his touch.

They walked side by side, arms looped around each others' waists. “There are guest bedrooms,” he said into her ear, “But I think Gloria is trying to avoid the topic.”

“What topic?”

“Beds. And people in them.”

She smiled, shaking her head. “I knew the President had a sister,” she said, helping Percival lower himself onto the couch (well, maybe she just didn't want to let go of him so soon). “I didn't realize you were all close.”

“On and off, over the years,” Percival admitted, then stared at her as she knelt down in front of him. “What are you doing?”

“Taking off your shoes for you,” she said, undoing the laces.

“I can do that myself.”

“Oh can you?” Tina asked, looking up at him expectantly. “How about you try and do it right now while I'm watching. Both hands.” He scowled and she smirked victoriously, going back to the laces. “Thought so. Why on and off?”

“Fights and feuds. We're all stubborn, except for Antoine, I suppose. Do you still speak with your school friends?”

“Some of them,” Tina said, setting his shoes aside. While she was kneeling she began to undo the straps for her own heels. “But I was a bit of a loner. Mostly it's Queenie's friends. She's easy to love, not like me.”

Percival's fingertips ghosted over her cheek, startling her for a moment. “Sometimes the best things take effort,” he said.

She got to her feet. “Mr Graves,” she said, taking his hand. “I think you're a bit zozzled right now.”

He rubbed his thumb over the back of her knuckles, let out a slow breath. “I'm already half under,” he admitted, and she knew he was talking about the tea he'd drunk. “You'll have to forgive me for being a bit ridiculous.”

She smiled. “Strangely enough, I'm having a hard time being angry with you lately. Now, lay down and go to sleep.”

She gently pulled free of his grasp and stepped over to the windows, which were large and looked out on the front yard. The path they had walked up not an hour ago seemed inviting and mysterious. Was the night almost over? It felt like it would never end; an adventure that disregarded time.

“Tina, come here.”

She lowered herself carefully onto the couch, perching on the edge, by his chest. As soon as she was sitting he had his hand on her knee, just resting there. “What happened to you tonight?” he asked.

She looked down at him, frowning slightly. “I could ask you the same question,” she said, softly.

“We can talk about it later. I just want to know you're alright. Something's been bothering you.”

“I've been worried about you.”

“At first,” he said. “But I'm fine now and there's still something there, in your eyes.”

She placed her hand on his. “I'm fine,” she said. “We can talk about it in the morning. We owe each other reports, after all.”

He smiled at that, and it was a grim, self-deprecating sort of smile that made her heart hurt. Without having to think about it she bent down and kissed him, gently, on the lips. Soft and slow, like the trees sighing in the night breeze; like the restful beat of his heart when he slept and she pressed her cheek to his chest.

“What was that for?” he murmured, after she pulled away.

“That was your New Year's kiss.”

He huffed a laugh. “This is a fine start to the New Year.”

“I was being serious.”

“So was I.”

 

He was asleep not long after, and even though it was likely the drugs that had taken him under, she still felt something warm in her chest that he trusted her enough for such a thing.

Someone cleared their throat and Tina's gaze darted self-consciously from Percival to the doorway of the living room, where Gloria was standing. Silently, she raised a hand and beckoned for Tina to come to her.

Apprehensive, Tina removed Percival's hand from her leg and got to her feet, doing her best not to disturb him, but he didn't shift. She walked over to the doorway and then through, Gloria having disappeared into the hallway.

She was surprised to find the other woman beckoning her up the stairs. “Let's get you out of that dress, honey,” she said. “That can't be comfortable.”

She was led to an upstairs bathroom, large and roomy with a claw footed tub, shelves full of ointments and creams and lathers, wall hooks hung with embroidered towels. While Tina filled a basin with warm water and began to scrub what was left of her makeup off, Gloria fetched a soft, worn dressing gown, as well as a few other items, namely a dress. It was about ten years out of style, long-skirted and high necked, but beautifully made in hues of peach and ivory. “This was meant to be worn with a corset, but I daresay you'll fit it as you are,” Gloria said. Tina didn't have the courage to ask who it used to belong to – Gloria, or the President. “I doubt you'll want to wear your current dress in the morning.”

Being left to her own privacy, Tina refilled the basin and pulled off her dress so that she was only in her drawers, garter and stockings, since the backless cut hadn't allowed her to wear a brassiere or, really, much of any underwear at all. She used a wet towel to clean herself up, scrubbing at the dried blood and sweat on her skin until she felt relatively close to normal again.

Taking off her drawers and sliding off her stockings, she pulled the nightgown on over her head and then belted the robe over top. Already feeling a hundred times better, she picked up the dress she would wear in the morning, alongside her own bloody garments, and headed back downstairs.

“Sit with me for a moment,” Gloria said in the kitchen.

The last of the hot chocolate was poured into two mugs, and Tina sat down. Gloria had dimmed the lights; there were only a few candles sputtering about. “I'm sorry about all this,” Tina began, but the other woman raised her eyebrow.

“All _this_?” she repeated. “I hardly believe this is your fault. Seraphina will be here in the morning to help sort everything out. I tried to get her to come earlier but she's... busy. I bet you know partly why.”

Tina looked down at the table and didn't answer.

“Don't worry,” Gloria said. “I'm used to gag orders around here. I just wanted to talk to you about Percival. I've never seen a woman look so devoted as you while she's digging her fingers into a flesh wound.”

Tina flushed, not sure if that was a compliment or an insult, and too embarrassed to ask. But she felt she needed to get something straight, right away. “I'm not,” she began, “I'm not one of those women who... who try to get ahead by...”

Gloria waved her hand, dismissively. “I make no judgements about the choices a woman makes,” she said. “The world is against us enough already. But that wasn't what I was going to say. See, there's always been something about Percival, and it's been getting stronger as the years go by and he just seems to get more and more handsome. He's no stranger to women throwing themselves at him, or fawning over him, or flirting with him. To his credit he treats them all nicely enough. But he's different and they don't want different, they want... whatever it is the movies tell them they want. Normal. And he knows that. He doesn't really mind. Seeing a pretty girl like you be charmed by him is old news.”

Tina gaped at the other woman. “Is this... are you _trying_ to make me feel terrible?”

Gloria let out a bark of laughter before she muffled herself with her hand. “I'm sorry,” she said. “Really. I'm blunt. I'm saying I've seen the way women are with him, and I've seen the way he is with women. But the way he is with women is not the way he is with _you_. Do you understand?”

Tina opened her mouth, then hesitated. “No,” she said. “Not a clue.”

“I'm saying you're special, girl. _Don't_ let it go to your head,” she warned, jabbing a finger at Tina. “But he obviously sees something he likes very much. Now, my sister, like I said, will be here tomorrow morning. Does she know?”

“I don't think so. Unless Percival told her.”

“Percival will talk her ear off about anything under the sun except his women, so we can safely assume she's in the dark. I like you, and I like him, so I'll do you a favour and keep it that way.”

Tina's eyebrows shot up. “You will?”

“'Course.”

“She's your sister.”

“So?”

“And the President?” she tried.

Gloria snorted. “Only for another two years,” she said. “Look, we're all fragile. Our emotions, our actions, even our beliefs. We can't tell which parts of us will turn to stone and which will wash away with the changing of the seasons. Seraphina is a tidal wave sometimes, without meaning to be. And I'd like to give you two a chance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might remember the mention of Gloria in Chapter 1. Yes, I have wanted to introduce her into this story since the very beginning. There's enough backstory in my brain that I might write a short story offshoot about Percival and Seraphina if I get any spare time, but right now this story is sort of eating my entire brain. Honestly though, don't you just love the idea of Percival being an uncle? I KNOW I DO.
> 
> Also I feel inclined to mention here that you can follow me on tumblr at vodkertonic.tumblr.com so if you post pretty pictures of Colin or Katherine I wanna know.


	12. a presidential visit

When he woke, his whole body was in pain, but it certainly seemed focused on his right shoulder. He blinked groggily in the morning light – no one had bothered to draw the curtains closed – and tried to figure out whether it was worth getting up yet.

He'd slept on the couch many times, often when he was too drunk to bother with making it upstairs. He'd been younger, then, but he didn't think he was _that_ old that passing on the couch put him in so much discomfort. Then again, leaping around and engaging in duels – or getting shot – wasn't something he did often these days, so no wonder he was sore.

His wand was laying on the floor, right beneath where his hand hung over the edge of the couch, in easy reach. He had a good idea on who had put it there after he drifted off.

Turning his head, he saw her sleeping on the other couch. It was a smaller size and she was flat on her back, her legs dangling over the sofa arm, her bare feet peeking out from beneath a blanket. For some reason, only her knees were covered. He smiled. _See, she's fine_ , he told himself. _She's always fine_.

With a grimace he shifted, pulling himself up into a sitting position. All of his muscles were stiff and protesting and he had a hole in his shoulder, but at least he wasn't dead, and he'd been an Auror long enough to know that was a fact to be properly grateful for, however blasé he pretended to be about it. He clambered to his feet and made his way upstairs, quietly, so as not to wake Tina.

Already, some of his nieces and nephews were awake, and they stopped him in the hallways to make their enquiries. What happened to his shoulder? Why did he look so awful? Who was the pretty lady downstairs? He was trapped for a full five minutes until Gloria emerged from the master bedroom, scowling.

“Leave uncle alone,” she scolded. “Unless you're doing chores I want to see you back in bed until at least ten o'clock! Old people gotta sleep!”

They scattered, giggling, and Gloria sighed. “Here now,” she said. “You can use mine and Antoine's bath where the kids won't burst in. You look absolutely awful.”

“You don't think this look suits me?”

“Shockingly, I think you look better with a full tux and no flesh wounds,” she said, waving at his shoulder. “Come on, then. You need to look pretty for Tina.”

Percival stopped. “Excuse me?”

“You're very particular about your appearance,” Gloria said, innocently. “And your women.”

“You know, every year, you become more and more like your gossip-entrenched neighbours,” he accused.

“Well? Am I wrong?”

He opened his mouth, then let out a huff. “Shut up,” he said. She smirked.

Their bathroom wasn't connected to their room, but it was just outside the bedroom door and had the kind of lock that would not be unusual to come across in a MACUSA office. Early on in motherhood, Gloria had begun to take her privacy very seriously, and would not risk even her children accidentally magicking open doors on her when she was taking a bath. It was probably the most secure room in the house – in their younger years Antoine and Percival had definitely locked themselves in there to smoke, hanging their heads out the open window and breathing away the evidence (Antoine had managed to kick the habit several years ago, unlike Percival).

He went to the guest bedroom he usually occupied, finding clothing he left behind from his many stays – when it came to emergency packing for their quick escape, he'd only bothered with gathering up the case files, which hopefully Tina had managed to grab – before heading to the bathroom. Merlin, he looked like the walking dead. That definitely needed to be fixed before Seraphina blew in.

 

.

 

Tina woke with a start. Her dreams had, as usual, been dark and writhing things. Her hand immediately reached under the couch cushion to the beaded handbag she'd carried the night before. She'd separated it from her clothes, which Gloria had taken with a promise to clean and have the bloodstains out by morning.

Percival had disappeared. She wasn't surprised that they could drug him to fall sleep and he would still wake up before her. Sighing, she sat up and stretched, pulling some of the cracks out of her neck. She'd slept in worse spots.

The house was slowly waking up. There was a sizzling sound from the kitchen, voices, a child's laughter. It made Tina smile.

Before she could think of what to do – she had been hoping Percival could give her a hint as to how to conduct herself – Nora walked in, holding a cup of coffee. She was wearing a pair of baggy trousers and a button up blouse, and had the lazy walk of a pretty girl who hadn't realized just how pretty she was, yet. Striding around in daylight it was obvious how tall she was, like her father; she was nearly Tina's height. “It's milk and sugar, is that okay?” she asked, holding the mug out. “We can get you cream, or just black, if you prefer.”

“No, that's perfect,” Tina said, holding out her hand. “Thank you.”

“Do you want to change before breakfast?” she asked. “You can use my room.”

Tina thought about it, and then nodded. There was no telling when the President would show up, and she'd much rather be wearing underwear when that happened. “That would be nice, thank you,” she said, sneaking her hand out to grab up her purse, as well as the dress Gloria had handed her the night before.

Tina wasn't sure if revealing the fact she was carrying an extension charmed purse was a good idea, because even that was quite telling about their assignments, so she hadn't bothered to say she had clothes of her own to wear. Gloria had said she was used to gag orders in the house, so Tina didn't feel too bad about hiding it for the time being.

Anyway, the idea of wearing her own clothing in this house was oddly strange to her, because she already felt like she didn't belong there. She had turned a corner in life and had entered another world, where the particulars of existence for people like Seraphina Picquery and Percival Graves were suddenly swanning all about her. May as well change everything else about her, too, to make it more believable.

Nora lead her up the stairs and down a hallway, around a corner. Her room was at the back of the house, with a large window showing the yard. Tina set her coffee down on the desk, looking around, impressed.

The entire room was scented with green, growing things, because there were plants everywhere. By the window were creepers and flowers, and leafy plants hung from the ceiling, tended to by artificial light. Some of the plants were quite benign and non-magical; others shifted and moved, tendrils flexing in the air, as if sensing the newcomer.

“Do you take care of all these?” she asked, impressed.

Nora nodded. “Well, not when I'm in school,” she admitted. “Mama takes care of them then. But I grew them all myself, from seeds or cuttings.”

“They're beautiful.”

“Some of them bite,” Nora said. “Well, I call them love nibbles. Those are the ones on the dresser... stops my brothers and sisters from going through my things.”

Tina snorted. “I'll keep my hands off, then,” she said.

Nora grinned. “See you downstairs,” she said, shutting the door.

Quickly, Tina rifled through her bag, pulling out a clean pair of underthings. After that it was a simple matter of slipping the borrowed clothing over her head. It was not a dress, she realized, but a skirt paired with a pretty, lightly-striped blouse, which was a bit closer to the type of clothes she favoured already.

It fit better than she expected – a bit tight in the waist and loose in the chest and the skirt was shorter on her than it was likely meant to be, but otherwise it was nice. It was surprisingly easy to move in, as well; even though it had likely been made during the same time, it was far comfier than the heavy, voluminous skirts Tina had been forced into when she was younger.

That done, she neatly folded the nightgown and robe and after some deliberation left it at the foot of Nora's bed, before grabbing her coffee and leaving. She headed down the hallway and was just at the top of the stairs when Percival appeared around the corner.

She gaped at him. He was, as usual, neat, even though he was in fact carelessly dressed – the top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing his undershirt beneath, and he was lacking a waistcoat. Also, only one of his suspenders was over his shoulder – the other hung down by his hip. She had never seen him look so rakish.

She pointed at the rogue suspender. “That better be because you were shot,” she said, “as opposed to you trying to look like a man caught in flagrante.”

“This is a family home, why would I try to look like that?” he countered. He was appraising her as well, she realized, and she felt herself blush, just a little, at his attention. “You look very nice, Tina,” he said, suddenly.

She glanced down at her toes, just visible beneath the hem of the long skirt. “Thank you.”

She felt him step close, felt his lips at her earlobe. She sucked in a startled breath and turned her head, prepared to kiss him, when a joyous shriek sounded.

“Uncle Percy! You really _are_ here!”

They tore themselves apart just before a little girl barrelled up the stairs. She stopped just short of colliding with either of them; Tina supposed Gloria had lectured all of the children on _not_ tackling anyone, because the girl certainly looked like she wanted to launch herself.

Percival smiled, holding out his left hand. “There you are!” he said. “Which one are you again? Tracy? Lauren?”

“There's no one named Tracy or Lauren!” she wailed, but she still latched onto his hand like a bird of prey. “I'm Kalinda and you know that! You know!”

“Alright, alright, I remember,” Percival said, allowing her to drag him down the stairs. Tina stood there, smiling in a giddy way, before realizing that at some point Percival had successfully stolen her coffee, and she now stood empty-handed at the top of the stairs.

“Hey!” she shouted, rushing down. He couldn't be _that_ injured if he could work that sleight-of-hand on her.

At breakfast, she finally discovered that Gloria had eight children – Nora the oldest, down to Kalinda, the youngest at four years old. However, only six of the children were present – the other two teenagers were at friends' homes for the holidays.

She had expected to be ignored, or perhaps engaged in polite conversation – she hadn't expected to be surrounded by children, all of them asking her questions. What did she do? (“I'm an Auror”) Did she work with Uncle Percy often? (“When he lets me.”) What about Auntie Sera? (“Not often.”) Did Auntie Sera really have a dragon in her office? (“That's top secret.”)

Percival, on the other hand, didn't get many questions; instead he had a seemingly unending stream of nieces and nephews showing him their latest artistic, scientific or otherwise pursuits. He bore it all with a patience she had often seen in the office, though under different circumstances; perhaps he'd sharpened his ability to maintain composure simply through being exposed to a legion of affectionate children.

When the children became too quarrelsome, Gloria would utter a warning and they would quiet down. She kept filling Tina's plate with heaping portions of bacon and biscuits and gravy and grits; undoubtedly, she'd noticed how ravenously Tina was eating.

“We were a bit too busy to eat, most of yesterday,” Percival admitted, after sweet-talking one of his nieces into grabbing him an apple. “And Tina requires quite a bit of food to maintain that figure. Hollow legs.” She blushed, but he said it rather fondly, so she knew he wasn't insulting her.

“I should've whipped up a bit of supper for you both last night,” Gloria remarked, frowning. “You could have told me, Perce.”

“Slipped our minds.”

Gloria made a 'hrm' sound. “You like the grits?” she asked Tina.

Tina swallowed. “I do,” she said. “I've never had them before.”

“Nothing fills you up and puts you back to normal like grits,” Gloria said, waving her wand, refilling everyone's coffee. “Kalinda, leave Uncle Percy alone and go jump on your daddy, he should be up by now. If he doesn't get down here soon there won't be anything left.”

When Antoine entered the kitchen he gave his wife a long, languid good morning kiss, the kind that could bring a woman to the tip of her toes asking for more. The fact he managed to accomplish it with two of his children clutching his legs was very impressive. “So, Tina,” he said, after pulling away, smoothing his wife's hair back, and shooing his children off. “Welcome to our humble home. I don't think anyone said that last night, did they?”

“It was heavily implied,” Gloria said, putting on more coffee.

“It's beautiful,” Tina said, honestly. “Has your family lived here long?”

“Not at all,” Antoine answered, easily, grabbing a plate and beginning to pile it high with breakfast food. “Gloria built it herself, after we got married. Even when she got pregnant and we hired in helpers to finish, she'd walk around glaring at everyone like a big bloated eagle.”

“She built it herself?”

“My parents gave us the land, once we got married,” Gloria said, mildly, setting coffee down in front of Antoine. “They meant to give it to Sera, but she never wanted it anyway. And they kept hoping I'd change my mind and marry Percival instead.” Tina coughed in surprise, trying not to spit out her coffee, and Gloria kept talking like nothing had happened. “You know, back then, he came with the Graves Estate; quite the steal. But I chose this drifter instead, and ma and pa got over it.”

Nora snickered. She was the only one, besides the adults, still at the breakfast table. “No they didn't,” she said, quietly, to Tina.

Percival made a suffering, annoyed sound that was not quite a sigh, not quite a grumble. “I wish you would all stop telling her these things,” he said. “It would be nice if she still respected me, once we get back to New York.”

“The illusion had to crumble sometime,” Antoine said, buttering his toast. “So, Tina, what about you? Do you live with family?”

“I live in an apartment with my younger sister, Queenie,” Tina said. She hoped they wouldn't ask about her parents, because that was always an awkward subject. “She also works for MACUSA. Wand permit office, so I get to have her nearby.”

“I hope you don't find this aggressive,” Antoine said, carefully. “But we've all been wondering, I'm sure – if you work with Perce here, why didn't anyone notice he'd been kidnapped and replaced by a war-mongering hedonist?”

Shocked, Tina dropped her fork; but the real surprise came from Percival.

“Antoine!” he snapped, and his friend drew back sharply in alarm. “What the Hell is wrong with you?”

“It's an honest question,” he huffed.

Gloria looked pale, but it wasn't nerves; there was something sparkling in her eyes which reminded Tina, eerily, of when the President had had enough of what was going on around her. “You should know better,” she said, her voice low, to her husband. Nora looked incredibly nervous.

“I'm not offended,” Tina said, and she was pleased to find that, though she had lowered her voice, it didn't sound small or unsure. “It's a legitimate question.”

Percival leaned forward, glaring at his friend. “ _I'm_ offended,” he said.

Antoine looked to Tina. “I'm sorry,” he said, so genuinely she forgave him on the spot. Percival, however, was still steaming, and Antoine pointedly did not address him.

Tina nodded. Underneath the table her hand crept out, finding Percival's, and she was thankful to see him relax, if only a little. “Well,” Gloria said. “That ruined a perfectly good breakfast conversation. Maybe I should have let you sleep in.”

Antoine sighed. “I'll go play with the kids,” he said, standing up, and taking his plate with him. “I'll talk to you later, Perce.”

Percival scowled. As soon as Antoine had ambled out, Gloria walked over and jabbed Percival in the shoulder. “Hell!” he shouted.

“Watch your mouth,” she warned. “You know he's just concerned, you didn't have to leap down his throat. We all know he's got terrible bedside manner for a doctor, you don't have to act like it's a surprise when he plays the fool.”

Percival muttered something unintelligible. “What was that?” Gloria half-barked.

“Nothing.”

“Thought so,” she sniffed, turning away. “Wipe that smile off your face,” she added, with a glare in Tina and Nora's direction. Tina didn't know if she was talking to both of them or not, but she quickly schooled her face into a concerned expression, before looking down at her plate, which was still half full.

Appetite undimmed, she began to eat again. She thought she heard Percival chuckle.

 

.

 

She tried to get to her sister's often, even if it was just for a Sunday lunch. Her work kept her busy, but not too busy where she couldn't pop away for a few hours every now and then. Apparating became more and more difficult the larger the distance, but if there was one perk to being the President of MACUSA, it was that Seraphina rarely had to worry about geographical problems. Titles had their own power, and hers was the most powerful in the country.

Rarely, though, did she find herself going to Gloria's for work. Her sister's home was a respite; it was her oasis of family in a life embroiled with politics and tension and danger. Even when the visits ended in an argument and Seraphian found herself storming back to New York in a huff, she still felt oddly refreshed, made whole again by her sister's attention.

Now she was going up the familiar, worn path, stepping through dappled sunlight and shadow, so that she could check on her Aurors. She was weary down to her bones and could smell the smoke on her own clothes. She still wore the long and diaphanous dress she had adorned herself with for the New Year's parties, which swished and swayed around her like shadows underwater, but it was spattered in muck and scorched along the edges. She'd figured if she was going to wreck the dress anyway there was no point in changing into something else which would also, likely, just get set on fire at some point.

The front door opened before she got there. Little Louisa launched herself down the steps with a happy shriek; she was starting to get tall and unwieldy, even for a five-year-old, so Seraphina braced herself.

“Auntie!” Louisa cried, wrapping her arms around Seraphina's waist. “Happy New Year!”

“Baby girl, you're not wearing any shoes,” Seraphina tutted, bending down to pick her up. She carried her niece, who giggled and swung about in her arms, back to the front steps, and set her down. “Go play, I need to see your mama and your uncle.”

She found everyone she needed in the kitchen, though not before coming across the entire brood on her way there, who all demanded at least one hug before letting her go on her way. She was exhausted, but the children, as always, kindled good feelings in her, and that was more refreshing than sleep.

Percival was sitting there like being shot was the fashionable new thing, and Tina was at ease until she caught sight of Seraphina. Immediately, Tina leaped to her feet, knocking into the kitchen table slightly and wincing in pain. “Easy, Goldstein,” she said, dryly, waving her hand. Blushing, Tina sat. Seraphina noticed her Auror was wearing a set of her old clothes, a blouse and skirt that hadn't fit since she was in her twenties. They looked good on her.

“Oh, Sera,” Gloria sighed, hand on her hip. “You're a sight. Let me make you a plate; you need food and coffee.”

“In a moment.”

“Alright,” Gloria agreed, and, as expected, immediately began piling a plate with food.

Instead of complaining or trying to stop her, Seraphina simply went and pulled out a chair, careful to pick a seat that had Tina and Percival sitting across from her. “How are you doing, Graves?” she said. “Antoine said you're not healing.”

“No, I'm not.”

Sera sighed. “Well, we can fix that later,” she said. In the commotion of that morning she had managed to set something up that, she hoped, would keep her Aurors under wraps as well as give Percival the medical aid he needed to recover. However, that was not the first thing on her list. “I'm going to need separate reports from both of you, once I manage to get some coffee in me. I can, however, give you both a brief summary of the events of last night and this morning, so as not to waste time. Thank you,” she added, as her sister set her plate down in front of her, with a cup of coffee just the way she liked it – dark and sweet.

“Want me to leave?” Gloria asked.

“You can stay, but batten down the hatches.”

Gloria nodded, and with a wave of her hand thin, wooden doors slid over and slammed across every entrance to the kitchen, from the doors to the windows. Tina looked around, startled and impressed.

“The whole house can seal,” Gloria told her. “Something you don't take lightly when you've got ancestors who liked to invent spells. Or siblings privy to confidential information.”

“What I'm about to talk about is not, strictly speaking, confidential,” Seraphina said, drowning her grits in gravy. “Just not yet common knowledge. Now, as you two are more than aware, New Orleans was beset by a series of planned arsonist attempts last night beginning at eight o'clock in the evening. What you may not be aware of is a commotion that occurred at Mercy's shortly before nine o'clock. A group of five masked revellers were having drinks when one of their number slipped away to the secret entrance to Flight Street and set it ablaze.”

“Did you apprehend them?” Tina asked, tensely.

Seraphina nodded, sipping her coffee. “Oh, yes,” she said, mildly. “But only four of them, who were, it so happens, exactly what they looked like: witches and wizards readying themselves for an evening of fun. They gave us the name of the fifth member, and we located her apartment a few hours ago. Her body had been there for at least two days. Suffice it to say, they had been buying drinks for a total stranger all night who had, more than likely, a hand in their real friend's murder.”

Gloria shook her head. “Poor girl,” she murmured, faintly.

Seraphina nodded. “I was handling things in New York until about two in the morning, before going to New Orleans,” she said. “We'd called Santa Fe and Los Angeles for reinforcements through the night, but Higgles still managed to make a right mess of things. As for you two,” she levelled a look at both Percival and Tina. “Well. As Higgles was conducting a search of all major wizarding homes and establishments, a certain residential building was flagged. The Aurors who arrived reported two witches – a redhead and a blonde – plummeting out of a window on the top floor, before Disapparating.” Tina grimaced. “Shortly afterwards, the building collapsed. Luckily, no one else was home.”

“I can-” Tina began, but Seraphina held up her hand.

“Let me know in your report, Goldstein. For now, just listen.”

“Yes ma'am.”

“As well, there have been reports that Director Graves has either been colluding with, or temporarily kidnapped, Madame Damiana Rawley. We have been unable to locate Rawley for questioning just yet, but she was last seen accompanying one of her shopgirls to St. Vincent's before disappearing. In all likelihood, she has retired to the bayou, but she has a business to run, so if she's still possessed of her own faculties she'll show up again soon. Beyond that, there is an official arrest warrant out for Director Graves. Not only did he burn The Dame down and is suspected of starting the fire at Mercy's, he attacked several Aurors before fleeing the scene. One of the Aurors reported the appearance of a witch before everything went dark, but no one else saw her and can corroborate that.”

“I assume,” Percival said, raising his eyebrows, “that you have decided I am not guilty, or else there would be an awful lot of spells bouncing off the walls right about now.”

“Oh, I think you're guilty of a lot of things,” Seraphina replied, dryly, pausing mid-bite of her eggs and toast. “But seeing as how all of the Aurors who faced you down were only treated for scrapes, sprains, and mild burns, I'd say turning against your people is the least of your sins, or else we'd be planning funerals right about now. _Did_ you set The Dame on fire?”

“I did not.”

“Good,” Seraphina mused. “My instincts are still working. Now, the last full report I received from you two was after the events with Gossamy. I will sit separately with each of you to debrief me on your movements. Once that is accomplished and I have eaten enough to Gloria's satisfaction-” here she heard her sister make an affirmative sound in her throat, “-you will ready yourself to leave.”

“I was afraid you'd say that,” Percival said.

Tina glanced back and forth at them. “Because of P- Director Graves?”

“This house will be one of the first checked to see where he's gone to ground,” Gloria sighed. “He's not exactly a stranger here, nor does he have very many other haunts for them to rattle through.”

“Well,” Percival said, “not _obvious_ haunts. But yes, they will check here.”

“They're _already_ checking here,” Seraphina corrected. “That's what I'm officially doing right now. However, once I give the all clear that Percival Graves and any lackeys are not present, guards will be posted in the off chance he decides to find shelter later. Because of that, I have already made arrangements for both of you to hide elsewhere until we get your work back on track.”

“Where?” Percival asked.

“Nowhere,” Seraphina replied, with a vague smirk. He scowled. “It is somewhere very secret, under the care of a colleague of mine who is the very _antithesis_ of political machinations. She is also an herbalist of sorts with a background in studying Dark magic, so she may be able to fix your shoulder or, at least, speed the healing process. I have contacted her already and have arranged for a temporary Floo Gate to open there, so when we are done here, you will be shortly on your way.

“Miss Goldstein,” she said, turning her attention to Tina. The other woman sat up just a fraction straighter, and Seraphina hid her smile. The Auror's awkwardness around authority aside, there was definitely something different about her – an eager glint in her eye, a serious turn of her lips, that pleased the President enormously. “I will speak with Director Graves first.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Might we use your office, Gloria?”

But Gloria was shaking her head already, motioning for Tina to get to her feet. “You can stay in here,” she said. “Come on, girl, let's pack some things up for you. Make sure she eats, Perce.”

 

.

 

'Packing things up' equated to emptying the guest bedroom of Percival's clothes, as well as more clothing from the depths of several trunks for Tina. Tina didn't even bother to get involved, because Gloria worked with a brusqueness that defied any attempts of help or offering an opinion. It was incredibly strange to see the focus, ferocity, strength and determination of MACUSA's President being redirected into motherhood.

So instead, Tina went and sat with Nora in her bedroom, at the girl's invitation. Her care with the plants reminded Tina very strongly of Newt. Unlike Newt, though, Nora was a lively and vivid, never afraid to make direct eye contact. “Do you want to feed them?” she asked, standing at her dresser, facing down the rows of potted plants that quivered and brooded. She was holding a bowl of what looked like chopped liver.

“I'll watch,” Tina said.

She ended up going to the window to sit in the sunlight, and eventually one of the creeping vines that took refuge on a lattice leaning against the wall started caressing her hair.

“How long have you been an Auror?” Nora asked. Tina watched as what looked like unopened flower bulbs spread apart to reveal sandpapery insides which turned out to be row after row of tiny, sharp teeth.

“A few years. After Ilvermorny I had to take the extra training and studies before I became a trainee. I'm still a lower-level Auror, though.”

Nora dropped bits of liver over the plants, who wolfed them up midair. “You're the only one he's brought back,” she said. “Now besides you, Uncle Percy's the only Auror I know. I've been considering doing it myself, but I'm not sure yet.”

“You have lots of time to figure it out.”

“Did you always know it's what you wanted to do?”

Tina paused. It was a question she'd received a lot, but she was beginning to suspect she had never answered it truthfully. 'Yes' was too simple, in retrospect. “I was drawn to it,” she said. “It was a different time. The War had ended. I felt like I needed to do something good. I also needed to support my sister Queenie.”

“Hm.” Nora set the empty bowl aside and wiped her hand on her trousers. “I guess things are different, now.”

 

Back in the kitchen, the room now seemed entirely different than it was before. The energy was charged; if she closed her eyes she could easily imagine she was back in New York, in Major Crimes. She wondered if the President and Percival had argued.

“I've heard Director Graves' view of events,” the President said, levelly. A quill floated above a piece of parchment, the same charm Percival had used days ago when Tina reported on Gossamy, and wrote whenever anyone spoke. “Now I need to hear your own. Do not be afraid to be thorough, Miss Goldstein, especially concerning the events last night. Even things such as feelings, scents, odd noises, and the like, may help clear things up for us.”

So Tina began. She had no idea if Percival had mentioned anything to Seraphina about how their relationship had subtly changed, but even if Gloria was wrong about him and he had informed her, Tina had no intention in talking about it herself. Instead she spoke only of the case and her and Percival's responses to the events, up until they split at Tobias Mope's mansion. She told Seraphina about Dorian Faust, and then her actions which brought her to discovering Kate.

Of course, none of that could be explained without mentioning the voodoo doll. To that, though, Tina had resolved to come clean – hiding that from her was the last thing on her mind. For her part the President did not respond, though her brows knit closer as Tina explained and justified her actions, mentioning hiding the existence of the doll from Percival, and her storing it with Kate.

Upon revealing that Kate's apartment had been broken into, however, Tina was unsurprised to see the other woman raise her hand and stop her. “Let me get this straight, Goldstein,” she said. “You willingly allowed a doll which could put the safety of Director Graves and, indeed, most of MACUSA at risk, into the safe-keeping of a witch who has not been vetted by any of us?”

Tina closed her eyes. Just remembering the state of things made her stomach swim with fear. But it had been done, and the consequences needed to be dealt with. “No,” she said. “That is not what I did, Madame President.”

“Explain.”

Tina picked up her beaded purse and reached into it, searching around for a moment before she discovered what she was looking for. When she pulled it out, Seraphina's eyebrows shot up her forehead in surprise.

“You said this was stolen,” she said, gingerly taking the doll from her. It nestled in her hands, the crudely stitched _P.G._ bright on its chest. The President frowned at it and poked at the stitches, as if noticing how crude and amateur they were.

“I put those there myself,” Tina said, answering her thoughts. “I doubt any self-respecting crafter would do that, but I needed something to personalize it and to make it – identifiable, at least if it was being described by someone to someone else.”

The President frowned. “I think I know where you're going with this,” she said, slowly. “But tell me, Goldstein. What did you do?”

“I knew the doll would be coveted, and I knew it was dangerous to keep,” she explained. “Especially once I found out exactly what it was. I was hoping to be able to keep it on my person until I could deliver it to you. But I also knew the likelihood of it believably disappearing was low, especially when there were people who must know it exists – someone would try to get it, before I had time to get to you.

“So I commissioned a doll of myself to use as a distraction. It more or less looks the same – black fabric, a button from one of my own coats. I put the same initials on it, too, after I picked it up from Veronique – _P.G._ , for Porpentina Goldstein. That was the doll that was stolen. The risk was there and I had to find a way to minimize it.”

She took a breath. “From what I could see, Madame President, it is better to have a lower level Auror like myself at risk, as opposed to our Director. You told me I had to keep him safe, so I did it as best as I could see fit. I was hoping that the doll would have remained in Kate's hands only for a couple of days, and when I informed you, MACUSA could have conducted a raid, but... that isn't what happened. But at least we have a small list of suspects, now. Someone betrayed me.”

President Picquery stared at her. It was a flat expression, lacking any emotion whatsoever besides a faintly calculating gleam. Tina was being measured, she knew, and her fate slowly decided. It was the same look she had gotten after she had been dragged off by her own coworkers when she'd attacked Mary Lou Barebone.

“You did what I would have done,” Seraphina said, finally, surprising her. “You have my full backing and support of your actions, Miss Goldstein. You were following my orders. Director Graves, however, will need to be notified. I will see it to myself, once he has fully recovered. For now, I will keep the doll safe. I assure you, I can be very discreet.”

Tina gave a small, grateful smile.

“Beyond that,” Seraphina continued, “you may not be the Director, but your safety is still of utmost importance. I will inform my colleague of your problem and once Percival has been tended to she will see if there are any defences she can put in place around you. Luckily for you, she may be the best person for the job.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“Now, if you could continue with the rest of your report.”

Tina nodded.

By the end of it, the President was frowning, but at least she wasn't angry. “This was most helpful, Goldstein,” she said. “We will conduct further enquiries, and I will contact the both of you once I know more. It may take a day, it may take longer than that. Until then I put my full trust in you monitoring Mr Graves while he heals. He has a penchant for thinking he can run before he can walk.”

“Of course, ma'am.” She paused, and Picquery seemed to notice her hesitation.

“Yes?”

“Have you found Geneva Rawley yet?”

“Not yet, no.”

“And Kate?” she pressed. “Is she alright?”

Picquery nodded, giving Tina a look of careful consideration. “She is,” she said. “She hasn't woken up, but she is in a stable condition at St. Vincent's. You probably saved her life. Whatever curse was in her has been... expelled, in the form of that creature you fought – it's likely still buried in the rubble of the apartment which, by the way, practically reeks of Dark magic. In any case, all that remains is for her body to recover.”

“And her mind?”

“We shall see.” The President sighed, and waved her hand; the note-taking quill dropped lifelessly to the tabletop. “Off the record,” she said, “be careful who you get attached to, Miss Goldstein. It's a messy and dangerous business you're in. You will have to say goodbye more times than you will ever care to.”

Tina bowed her head in understanding. “Yes, ma'am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Perce and Antoine, what silly mens~ so dramatic.  
> In case you were curious about this extra bit of information, these are the kids in order of birth:  
> 1910 – Nora  
> 1912 - Seralee  
> 1913 - Persephone  
> 1914 - Daniel  
> 1919 - Knightley  
> 1920 - Hollis  
> 1921 - Louisa  
> 1922 - Kalinda  
> Yes, the two absent teenagers are named after Seraphina and Percival, respectively.
> 
> Tina's borrowed clothes were inspired by Alicia Vikander's in Testament of Youth: http://www.mongrelmedia.com/MongrelMedia/files/b5/b5d07e05-6ba8-4dad-96dd-13c405b7c6fa.jpg (Tina would look adorable in every single outfit in that movie). It's also my headcanon for how Seraphina dressed before the 1920s - women in serious pursuits, like Academia, dressed in really unflattering clothes and drab colours in order to be taken seriously by male counterparts. But I figure Seraphina bucked that trend.
> 
> Next chapter has a character reveal I am deeefinitely looking forward to :D And yeah did anyone else notice Tina and Percival have the same initials? If they get married how will they know whose monogrammed bathrobe is whose????


	13. violetta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok everyone, before you do anything, before you read this chapter, look at this GODDAMN BEAUTIFUL graphic set done by astronautrix on tumblr. It's so pretty. Sooooo pretty and I love it so much!  
> http://astronautrix.tumblr.com/post/157964233116/goldgraves-fic-they-call-it-the-rising-sun-by

Once her report was over, everything else happened quite fast. The kitchen reopened and Gloria was there with a carpetbag hanging from one hand and a serious look on her face. “Percival's ready,” she said. “Are you?”

“One moment,” Tina said.

To her surprise, the President had offered to allow Tina to write a small, sealed note to Queenie. While she had wanted to say no – it would be better to appear independent, right? – she realized that even at such a distance it was possible her sister had been feeling some of her emotions lately. And if Queenie had felt even a shadow of Tina's upsets over the last few days, she'd be incredibly worried by now.

So she dashed off a quick letter telling her sister that everything was fine and not to worry. By the time that was done, everything appeared ready to go.

Side by side at the fireplace, Seraphina and Gloria looked eerily similar besides the difference in hair and dress. And Seraphina, despite standing there in a charred gown, barefoot, likely not having slept in over a day, was every inch the leader of wizardkind in America.

“It is a somewhat long journey,” she said. “Try not to get motion sick.”

“I packed more tea for his pain,” Gloria added, helpfully.

“Make sure he takes it, Goldstein,” Picquery said, seriously. “Even if you have to threaten him.”

“Maybe you should give her the executive power to fire him.”

“There's no point, we have no one to replace him. Stick to violence, Goldstein.”

“Surely-”

At the other side of the room, Percival and Antoine stood together, both of them frowning. Percival had been freshly re-bandaged while Tina and Seraphina had been together. “You really should wear a sling, old chap,” Antoine counselled. Apparently, their fight from breakfast was over, but now Percival was being difficult in a new way by glaring daggers at anyone suggesting how he should handle his injury. Even when it came from an actual doctor.

Percival waved it off. “Let's just go,” he said. “We've lingered enough already.”

“Just promise to listen to Sera's _colleague_ , at least.”

Seraphina beckoned Percival over imperiously and Tina thought she was about to relay an order, but instead she reached out, smoothing her hand for a moment over his uninjured shoulder before giving it a squeeze – not a loving touch, but affectionate and familiar. A friendship that survived the ceaseless attack of years and politics. “Be careful, Percival,” she said. “You're running out of lives.”

Again Tina was reminded of how _well_ Grindelwald had played Percival. The way he had made excuses for Seraphina's snappish behaviour, how he seemed to naturally fit into the same room as the President, as if they had once been a single, dramatic statue that had a chisel taken to their feet, splitting them apart. The thought chilled her. How long had Grindelwald been watching all of them? Was he still watching them now, even in hiding?

Tina stepped forward, towards the fireplace, but a hand suddenly clutched hers and tugged her back. Surprised, she looked down and saw Kalinda, with Hollis standing at her shoulder.

“Bye, Tina,” she said. “Come back soon. You haven't seen the pond yet! It's got frogs!”

And just like that, she was swamped by half a dozen children bidding her goodbye with kisses and hugs before leaving her to lavish even more affection on Percival. Then Gloria squeezed her tightly, and kissed her cheek. “Take care of him,” she said, into Tina's ear.

“Remember,” Seraphina said. “Stay put and don't move until you're contacted by your hostess. You can trust her. She never lies.”

Percival went first. Not wanting the President to think she wished, deep in her heart, that she could stay at that house for weeks more – which was true – she stepped in after him without a backwards glance.

 

Tina supposed she wasn't surprised that as soon as she crawled out of the fireplace, dusting ash from her skirt, it was to find Percival sitting on the edge of a chair, looking pale. He held his right elbow cradled in the palm of his left hand, steadying it, and she knew despite his grumpiness, his talk, and his swagger, he was in a lot of pain. Whirling through the Floo network likely hadn't helped things.

She wasted no time in going to him, stooping low, and pressing her lips to his for a momentary kiss. “Lay down with me?” she asked, hoping that was the right way to go about it. She figured that even if she'd been brusque and abrupt, ordering him to rest, she still might have got her way, but she preferred this approach. Besides, she wanted to be near him. Recently, that was all she wanted.

He gave her a look that suggested he knew exactly what she was doing, but he allowed himself to be manipulated nonetheless. “Of course,” he said, pressing his forehead against hers.

It wasn't a big place, so it was only a matter of walking through the nearest doorway to find the bedroom. It was chilly in the house, cold with lack of use, but a heating spell had the air growing somewhat more hospitable, and the blankets on the bed were soon warmed by their bodies.

It took awhile to find a position that didn't cause him pain or discomfort but also allowed her to wiggle herself close. Eventually she coaxed him into laying on his left side and then she curled up against his back, her face nudging into the nape of his neck, one arm over his waist. He held her wrist with his left hand and tucked her hand up against his chest. “I don't get cuddled very often,” he remarked, his voice a low rumble, and Tina smiled against his neck.

“You can make that a New Year's Resolution,” she suggested. He snorted at the idea, and rubbed his thumb in a calming, circular motion against her palm.

It didn't take long – she didn't think it would, not while she breathed warm, comforting air against the back of his neck. He shifted and fidgeted, like any working man who found himself laying down in the middle of the day in a forced reprieve, but she was patient, waiting for his exhaustion to take hold.

Eventually, it did. He grew still, except for the steady movement of his breath. After waiting longer to make sure he was deeply asleep, she carefully extricated herself from him. Though she'd rather stay there in the warmth and the closeness, there were some things to do.

Leaving the bedroom into the kitchen area, she noticed that along with the fireplace there was a stove, as well – the old-fashioned kind, black and forbidding, where the fire was kindled in its belly to heat the stovetop. After some consideration she decided to just light the fireplace, going over there to pile some wood on, with crumpled up newspaper from the 1910s. She blew a fire into life, then got to her feet and went to look around a bit more.

It was a small, contained place. There were only three separate rooms – the bedroom, the bathroom, and a door that likely led to some sort of pantry. Otherwise, there was nothing else; the kitchen, dining area and sitting room were divided out by a mere arrangement of furniture.

It was an old place, she could feel it. While Gloria's home had seemed aged because of the lived in quality, this little building was lonely and with its loneliness came its age. Curious, she bent to inspect some carvings on the wooden floor, which disappeared underneath a rug – lifting the edge, she saw it continued onwards, weaving in and out from beneath rugs and furniture. It seemed to be a design, but she couldn't tell of what.

There was no dust, either, even though the house – or cabin – obviously hadn't been used in some time. Either someone came through every so often to clean, or there was a housekeeping charm on the house. Even the wood piled by the fireplace had seemed freshly cut.

There was, also, a humming in the air. Magic had been done here, and it had seeped into the walls.

She stepped over to the door that appeared to be the pantry, reaching out, but she quickly snatched her hand back as it neared the doorknob. It seemed to grow hot the closer she got to it. A warding spell, no doubt, and she had no interest in tackling it. She was a guest, after all, and while it was expected she'd look around, snooping was definitely out of the question.

Still wondering who it was the President had contacted, she wandered past the kitchen and opened the door there. This was the back of the little cabin; it led out onto a low porch that appeared to loop its way around the entire house. Beyond it was a pathway that led down, paved with old stones, leading to a tiny dock that stuck out in a slow-moving river. A little boat was tied up to it and it shifted back and forth in the faint current. The air was heavy with the scent of wet earth and full of the noises of bugs and birds. She took a deep breath.

She heard the little door at the front of the house slam.

Turning, she hurried back inside, looking across to see a woman going through the cupboards in the kitchen, pulling out a kettle.

“How about a cup of tea?” she suggested.

Tina stared. Not at the woman's arrival – she was, after all, expected – but the fact that she didn't look at all like the sort of person who made cups of tea. She was older, her face carved with firm, elegant wrinkles that reminded Tina of tree bark, and her eyes were bright and intelligent. Her skin was very dark but shone with a healthy intensity, and she was slender and sprightly, clad in a rugged approximation of a man's suit in shades of brown and olive. A small fedora sat on her head at a jaunty angle. So even though she was old, Tina had a hard time pinpointing _how_ old.

“I can make it,” she said, snapping out of it and hurrying forward. “It's the least I could do.”

“Well isn't that kind of you, child,” the woman said, with a toothy, nicotine-stained grin. “Tea's in the lower cupboard. Why don't you magic up something to go with it, while you're at it? The place is well-stocked.”

Tina brought out her wand. While Queenie was the one who cooked luscious meals for them both – she was the bread baker to Tina's breadwinner – Tina could still manage some simple cookies or biscuits if the situation called for it.

The woman made herself comfortable at the kitchen table. She produced a long cigarillo from somewhere and began to smoke in lazy puffs. “So you must be Tina,” she mused. She had a beautiful accent, a mix of Southern warmth with a French purr. “Got the hoodoo gleam to you. Picquery let me know about your troubles.”

Tina poured hot water into the teapot by hand while her magic worked around her, pulling together some simple, sweet biscuits coated in a sugar and lemon glaze. She glanced at the still-open bedroom door.

“Ah,” the woman said. “It's a secret, is it?” She flicked her hand dismissively in the direction of the bedroom, and the door swung slowly closed. “Don't worry. We'll let him sleep. Sleep's good.”

“Thank you for helping us,” Tina said, bringing the pot over to the table. The scones settled themselves on a plate and floated over to them, along with two cups and saucers.

“It's no problem for me. There's jam in that cupboard over there, I bet it'll go good with these.”

Tina went to fetch it, and paused. It was the same sort of little jar Gloria used to put all of her jam and jellies in; Tina had been treated to a vast array of them at breakfast that morning. It could be a coincidence, but she doubted it.

“Do you know Percival Graves?” she asked, going back to the table. The woman was tapping her cigarillo ash into one of the saucers, lifting the lid of the teapot to check on its steeping.

“I know _of_ him,” she said, mildly. “Read about him in the papers sometimes; bastard looks good in black and white. Hear about him from Picquery, from time to time. Why, what're you trying to figure out?”

“In the past twelve hours, I've met a lot of people Percival knows but I've never heard of.”

The woman gave her a crafty little smile. “Don't worry,” she said. “I'm a trade secret, as it were. I only know Picquery, personally – she's a special girl. But in this world none of us are as mysterious as we first appear. You can call me Violetta, by the way.”

“It's nice to meet you, Violetta.”

She gave a sharp laugh. “Is it?” she exclaimed, pouring them both tea. “Well, I'll be damned. Let me know when that changes.”

 

.

 

Percival woke to the sounds of murmured conversation.

The warmth that had been Tina was disappointingly absent, but he wasn't surprised. He'd figured she had just been attempting to lure him to sleep, and he hadn't minded. He didn't want to admit it, but it had felt frighteningly easy once she'd curled up against him, her body warm and soft, her breath ghosting against his neck. Though she was a tall and lanky woman, who shied away from makeup and dressed carefully in sensible shoes and trousers, there was something distinctly feminine about her when she got close to him. Soft and loving and sweet. He liked it.

Opening his eyes, he saw that whoever was talking wasn't murmuring – the door to the bedroom was simply shut, muffling the voices. He shifted with a grimace, using his left hand to prop himself up, which was difficult, as it had gone numb while he slept. He flexed out the pins and needles in his fingers, then experimentally rolled his shoulder, biting back a groan. The pain was in full force, now, without drugs or adrenaline to numb it. It felt as if someone had attacked his whole right shoulder and upper back with a meat tenderizer.

He assumed Tina was talking with Seraphina's colleague, so he figured he may as well introduce himself now. He wasn't sure what to expect – the term 'herbalist' did little to inspire hope, but he knew Seraphina better than that. If she thought there was a chance her colleague could speed his healing, he would happily take it.

Stretching was impossible when it hurt to move half of his upper body, so he tried not to stumble from stiffness as he made his way to the door.

Opening it, he saw Tina first. She was sitting at the kitchen table, facing in his direction, a cup of tea clutched in both hands. Her cheeks were very pink, and they seemed to get even pinker when her gaze flashed to him standing in the doorway.

The other woman – their host – turned in her chair to look at him. She was holding an unlit cigarillo and unapologetically wearing her hat indoors and at the table. It was cocked rakishly to the side, but her face was still clearly visible – and familiar to him, at least from several books.

She raised her eyebrows, rather imperiously. “Get over here and light this, boy,” she said, holding the cigarillo up. Percival gawked, then stepped forward immediately, fumbling in his pockets to try to locate his lighter (he was going to have to ask Tina to teach him her little trick in lighting cigarettes with a breath).

Tina blinked, as if she were surprised at his reaction. “I've got it,” she said, leaning forward to do so.

Violetta Beauvais – because that was who she was – cracked a smirk as Tina lit her cigarillo. “Not too good with your left hand, eh?” she said, to Percival. “You ought to fix that. I know some exercises.” Tina blushed even harder.

Percival wondered if maybe he should have stayed in the bedroom; his mind was feeling clogged with too little rest and too much pain to be very dignified. Well, too late now. “It is an honour to meet you, Madam Beauvais,” he said.

She apparently noticed him considering a bow or a handshake, because she gave an indelicate snort. “Sit down, boy,” she said. “You've got a hole in your shoulder, I don't expect you to do a tap dance for me. Call me Violetta. Get us another cup and saucer, won't you, Tina?”

But Tina was just staring, gobsmacked. “Did you say... Beauvais?” she said, weakly.

Percival stared back. “Tina, do you not know who this is?”

“I know who Violetta Beauvais is,” Tina said, looking so embarrassed now she seemed to be praying for the ground to swallow her up hole. “I didn't realize-”

“Calm down, girl, get that cup!”

Tina jumped up and hurried to obey.

Percival was glad to sit. It was only a small, square table, so no matter where he sat he was between Tina and Violetta. Tina returned, and poured Percival a cup of tea.

“How do you know the President?” he asked, curious.

“Well, the President knows everyone; she's the President,” Violetta said, airily. “I've met all of them, in my day. She's the first one to carry one of my wands, though. They're special creatures, the boys and girls who are chosen to wield them.”

Without being asked, Tina started to spread what looked like to be a scone with jam, clearly intended for him. He was faintly touched at the gesture, but still rather distracted at whose house they were in. Violetta Beauvais, after all, wasn't just any wandmaker. She was one of the most mysterious, refusing to divulge the secrets of her craft, almost as infamous for her personality as she was for her skill. “I've always been interested in wandlore,” he said.

“As you should be. It's an interesting subject.” Her gaze twinkled at Tina as she pushed the plate and scone towards Percival. “A little too wishy-washy for most, though; it has no solid edges, and people like to know where the map ends, don't they. But the most powerful magic is always the stuff deep in our bones that we can't use words to explain.”

Tina was listening with wide eyes. She wasn't blushing anymore; rather she was rapt with attention, and had gone back to clutching her teacup like a lifeline.

“Take yesterday,” Violetta continued, amiably. “I had a moment of _knowing_. It was a terrible feeling. My bones quaked, my mouth went dry. My eyes rolled straight to the back of my head. Something happened yesterday. We won't see the fruits of its labours for many years, but it will come. It will loom dark and terrible. Mark my words...”

“You're a seer?” Tina asked, impressed.

Violetta laughed. “No, no,” she said. “I'm no seer, sweet thing. I can't predict the future. But sometimes I can feel something happening in the universe. The threads go tight and knotted around me and they take me for a little ride.”

Tina looked at him, as if expecting him to brush the words away as, he was sure, most men his age and standing would. But he was listening. His own forays into wandless magic and his past experiences with Dark magic had shown him that when it came to the unknown, there was always more to it than anyone could ever expect.

He met Tina's gaze, expecting her to ask him a question, but something in her eyes changed, imperceptibly, and she got to her feet again. “I'm going to make that other tea,” she murmured, and he knew he must look awful in order to drag her back to the present like that.

Instead of denying her, he nodded. “Thank you,” he said, quietly, and turned his attention to Violetta, who was sucking on the end of her cigarillo and staring pensively at him.

“Since you're up now and paler than the dead, we may as well take a look at that shoulder, then,” she said, pushing her chair back. “Unbutton, Mr Graves.”

As he did so he watched her walk past him, going through the kitchen. She patted Tina on the shoulder, who was in the middle of shaking herbs out into a second teapot. “Come help me when you have a second,” she said, before reaching for the handle of a door situated at the far wall.

She and Tina disappeared into the room beyond, which was good, because he didn't want Tina to see how much it hurt for him to shrug his shirt off. At some point – probably after the rocky Floo ride – he had begun to bleed again, and it had seeped a bit through the bandages, but luckily it hadn't gotten onto his shirt.

Even though he still wore his undershirt, the damage was clearly visible. Much of his skin was an ugly, bruised colour, shades of green and yellow and purple and blue, spread over much of his upper body – everywhere, it seemed, where he felt pain. He'd noticed that in the morning when he'd bathed, but it seemed to have gotten worse since then.

He looked up from his inspection when Tina gave a small gasp. She was standing here, her arms full of baskets which were piled high with enough strange ingredients to make a potions master weak in the knees. She was so laden with items that a full basket even swung from where it was hooked through her elbow. “Is that normal?” she asked, eyes on the bruising.

“Nope,” Violetta said, stepping around her. She had the teapot in her hands. Percival drank down the rest of his first cup of tea so that she could refill it with the new blend. “That's uglier than I expected. I'm afraid this tea isn't going to work fast enough for your liking, Mr Graves, and we should deal with this now. Lucky for you I've got something that ought to work in a couple minutes.”

Tina deposited the baskets on the tabletop and Violetta began to rustle through them at the same time, pulling out jars, paper boxes and various other containers. She unscrewed the lid off of one jar that was about half full, and a curious scent of cut grass, dried flowers, and cloves started to fill the air.

She took a generous pinch of it and dropped it into the crease of a rolling paper. “You know how to roll cigarettes, Tina?” she asked, pushing the bundle towards her.

Tina nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. Now I don't want either of you doing magic while I work, just in case, so roll that up by hand and light it by hand, too.” She patted her pockets down, her cigarillo still burning and clamped between her lips, and pulled out a lighter, shaped beautifully like the head of a wolf. “Right. Let's get started.”

He had endured endless pokes and prods from Antoine trying to get any of his remedies to work, and Tina when she was inspecting the wound for Dark magic. Violetta Beauvais, though, made all of those experiences mere discomforts.

All she had said was, “whew, boy, this is gonna _hurt_ ,” before ripping past the bandages and _digging_ at the bullet hole. Percival slammed his left fist against the tabletop to stop from shouting out, and he noticed Tina jump with surprise in the corner of his eye.

He almost snapped at her when he saw her spill some of the mixture out of the rolling paper, her hands shaking with nerves, but he bit the urge back. That would not be productive. “Tina,” he grit out.

She met his eyes, nervously. “Sir?” she asked.

“Calm down.”

Some of the colour came back to her face. “Yes, sir,” she said, more confidently, and bent her head over her work. After a few moments her hands became sure. She rolled the cigarette tightly, licking along its edge to seal it, and smoothed her fingertips along its length to distribute everything evenly.

She handed it to him and picked up the lighter, flicking it on and lighting it for him once he had it to his lips. He drew in a lungful of smoke that was mostly paper from the edge of the cigarette, but the second puff was better, tingling and warm. “Perfect,” he breathed, sighing out smoke.

“No wriggling, now,” Violetta said. “Hm. Looks like whatever was in that bullet is starting to spread.”

“You can stop it, right?” Tina worried.

“Oh, better than that. I can draw it out and he'll be just fine. The scar will never go away, though,” Violetta cast a look over him, mouth twisting in a dry smirk. “The President tells me you have quite a few, so another one shouldn't be too much to worry over.”

“Mmn,” Percival agreed, still smoking.

Tina hovered between him and Violetta, acting as the extra pair of hands. Percival didn't bother to look at first, more concerned with puffing away. It sent a pleasantly warm feeling through him and helped to dim the pain, though it seemed to have some... other side effects.

“That looks terrible,” he remarked, looking down at his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“None of your damn business,” Violetta replied. “Keep smoking. All of it.”

“Am I supposed to be feeling like this?”

“Yes,” she said, promptly.

“Why, how do you feel?” Tina asked, curiously.

Percival tipped his head back to look at her, giving her a vague smile. “Fine,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes, considering him. “Your pupils are gigantic.”

He frowned. “Don't they fit my eyes anymore?” he wondered. Violetta snorted. Tina opened her mouth as if to say something, then shook her head and looked away.

 

.

 

Violetta, in some ways, reminded Tina of Gloria, but only in the way she spoke in a brusque, teasing manner. Beyond that there was a lack of motherly love and a distinctly dark streak of humour. She was like someone's vicious old granny who knew she was terrifying, and found it rather amusing.

Tina wasn't frightened, though. In fact, it was rather refreshing to sit and talk to someone who only spoke truth, however torrid or uncomfortable it may be. And she wasn't cold; rather she didn't seem to bother herself with feeling upset over problems that couldn't be solved. The entire time she worked on Percival she smoked, rolling it about in her mouth as she puffed without the use of her hands; he probably would have been amused by it, if it weren't for the fact he started to stop caring about anything halfway through his own cigarette.

“Are you here all the time?” Tina asked. “It feels abandoned, but isn't.”

“This is where I come to work, but not so often lately,” Violetta explained. “I've always liked Louisiana. I love the country. Things lurk here that remind us of the old world, make us remember that we were powerless back then – that we still are, now.”

“All of the literature we have on you says you live in New Orleans,” Tina said, looking over at MACUSA'S Director of Security. Percival was, quite frankly, out for the count; he was leaning back in the chair, head tipped back, eyes closed, his breathing slow and even. By the time he had gotten to the end of the cigarette his conversational skills had greatly diminished into nearly nonexistent. Violetta said he wasn't sleeping, but that he was 'definitely somewhere else'. Tina hoped he came back soon; she quite liked his company.

Not that Violetta was a boring companion, by any means. They had more or less finished with Percival's shoulder and as they tidied had gotten rather chatty. Tina had expected something quite complicated in the healing, but it was very similar to what Antoine had done, only a few ingredients sewn up in a square of flannel had been placed against the wound to 'draw the darkness out', as Violetta said. She had plucked and ground and mixed many different items together, all without needing to consult a book for directions.

“I do,” Violetta said. “I have a house there – it's beautiful. You should come for tea sometime, provided I'm in the mood for company. But I have a house out here, as well, bought it a couple decades ago to get away from it all. And this little cabin in particular is my workshop. It's always best to separate your work from your home, either in a different room or another dwelling altogether.”

“What were you getting away from? Just the people?”

Violetta swished her wand idly, heating more water to refresh their pot of tea. “New Orleans used to be different, among the No-Majs,” she said. “So tolerant. Mulattoes everywhere. You know about Jim Crow?” Tina nodded. “Well, he didn't get around to Louisiana for a long while. White and coloured kids went to the same schools, got married and lived in the same neighbourhoods. Then Jim Crow came here in 1890, and was here to stay.”

The words caused a shiver to travel down Tina's spine. In their world it was flat out illegal to discriminate based on race, gender, or background – it still happened, but not for hundreds of years to the extent the No-Majs did today. The fact that Seraphina Picquery was the most powerful woman in the United States, yet had barely any rights as soon as she stepped beyond MACUSA's doors, was a chilling fact.

Violetta gave her a grim, knowing smile. “New Orleans, summer of 1900,” she mused. “A black man named Robert Charles shot a cop, by accident I suppose, and that was that. I've never seen such a vicious mob, beating the Hell out of any black man they came across. They shot and beat whites, too, anyone who tried to protest against the violence. To Hell with Rappaport, I opened my door to as many of them as I could and offered shelter during those nights. Of course, after a couple days the rich whites realized no one would invest in the city if it went on, so they stepped in to save their credibility.”

“It didn't seem like that, when I was there.”

“Ah, but New Orleans is full of ghosts,” Violetta said, tapping the side of her nose and winking. “They linger but they never get in the way of the party. It's a colourful history, and its future will be just the same. I'll never sell my house in the city; I'll always go back there, the way I always come back here.”

“I noticed some scratches on the floor, earlier,” Tina said. She shifted in her seat, glancing back at where the markings disappeared underneath the rug.

“Cosmogram,” Violetta explained. “They're all over the place. Good to centre yourself for powerful workings; have to set them up, though. I'll walk you through it. You're going to need to know, if you're going to get Mr Graves back on his feet.”

Tina felt her cheeks grow warm, the residual embarrassment from their last conversation returning to her. Her eyes strayed to Percival.

“Oh, don't worry, I doubt he even knows where he is right now,” Violetta laughed. To demonstrate, she snapped her fingers close to his ear; he opened his eyes and gave her a look full of unfettered irritation.

“Yes?” he said.

“How are you feeling?”

“Nothing,” Percival replied. “Nowhere.”

“What's your name?”

“Names are meaningless,” he said, promptly, and then paused, concerned. He stared darkly at the far wall.

Tina knew she was looking horrified, but Violetta broke into a peal of laughter. “Philosophers used to smoke it,” she chortled. “Try to get in touch with their thoughts better. My first husband loved it, thought it turned him real wise when really he was just less annoying on the stuff. Lord, I wonder what Percival Graves has got mulling around in that skull of his. Maybe he'll solve wizarding and No-Maj relations, or invent a new cocktail.”

“When will it wear off?”

“Soon,” she promised. “It's not anything serious; he's just drifting. It makes outside stimuli hard to concentrate on. That's what makes it such a formidable painkiller. See, he's already gone again, no doubt pondering the intricacies of life. It's best to leave him alone; give him, oh, another ten minutes? He'll start to wake up. Potent but fast, it is.”

Tina let out an uneasy breath. “Alright,” she said. “But if it's permanent, I'm going to be very unhappy with you, Madame Beauvais.”

She continued to chuckle. “Yes, alright,” she said. “Come, then, let's whip up a few things together. More tea, I think. And more cigarettes in case that's not up to snuff.”

“I don't think-”

Violetta waved her concerns away. “It'll be a different mix,” she said. “I just needed to put him out as fast as we could manage, because the magic I used on him hurts like Hell. This one will be milder; we'll do it by hand. Come on, then.”

Grabbing up the baskets from the kitchen table, Tina followed Violetta yet again into the workroom – through the door she had attempted to open before, only to be warded off. It could best be described as a stillroom; there were all sorts of ingredients and apparatus to make anything from potions and libations to soaps and candles. It was the one room in the cabin that was clearly enchanted, for it was far bigger than the entire rest of the house on the inside, but took up no more room on the foundations than a closet. Tina had a feeling if she wandered in further and started looking around, wand-making tools would begin to present themselves.

Of course, Tina just ended up sitting on a stool with several sheaves of parchment, writing down directions from Violetta while she crushed and blended, stitched together a couple more flannel packets, mixed herbs and dried flowers and chunks of something that looked like broken quartz but was, in fact, chunks of hard sugar. Violetta gave her a piece to suck on, claiming Tina needed a pick-me-up.

It felt like a lecture for which she had no background studies; she just wrote as fast as she could, as per Violetta's direction not to do any magic for the time being. She was given a list of things to do, directions on the proper set up of the many cosmograms, a rundown on select areas of the house and even a recipe for Violetta's favourite stew.

Most important of all, however, were the warnings.

“We're deep in the country here,” Violetta warned. “This house itself is safe. It is warded and protected and well-known to the entities who live in the area. Beyond this place, though, the wilds await. There will be eyes watching when the lamps are lit at night; they will know someone is home, that it's not me, and they will watch to see if you do anything foolish.

“Do not, under any circumstances, stray from the porch. I would not even advise going to the dock but, if you must, stay on the pathway. The ground is warded but it is best not to tempt fate; the plants and the animals warp the wards as they grow, but the protection on the house is solid as stone. You've no need to worry, so long as you remain inside.”

“We will,” Tina said.

“Good,” Violetta said, with a toothy grin. “I've pegged you as a smart woman, Tina. Try not to do anything to make me change my mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violetta Beauvais is a canon character who I actually found out about _after_ beginning the story, and she was just too perfect not to consider including, especially when she hailed from New Orleans. She's the wandmaker responsible for Seraphina's wand, and her creations are known for having, ahem, a 'natural affinity' to Dark magic, which I felt was a perfect counterpart to the type of magic I envisioned being practiced in New Orleans. However, that aside, my version of her is definitely not canon.
> 
> The mobs and Robert Charles, though, are real. And the fact that New Orleans was apparently incredibly tolerant in comparison to the rest of the South, or really the rest of the country during the late 1800s. However, I'm not going to pretend to be an expert, this is just stuff I unearthed in my research of New Orleans, so if there are any mistakes in the history there, I apologise heartily.
> 
> Also I kind of wish I could make Percival high for the rest of the story because he's hilarious but alas, the plot. This chapter took the longest for me to write so far, mostly because it's at kind of a weird place story-wise, and also I couldn't decide on the POV switches between Percival and Tina as well as which parts of the conversations to reveal. I wrote a lot of stuff I either deleted or have swapped to chapter 14. We're yet again perched at an odd spot where there's about to be a downhill push into some plot and shit, but next chapter will almost exclusively be relationship building. And creepy Louisiana swamp.
> 
> And shit before I forget, the 'moment of knowing' Violetta mentioned was the birth of Tom Riddle.


	14. kiss it better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

“ _Tell me about him, then,” Violetta had requested._

_Tina paused, teacup raised halfway to her lips. “What about him?”_

“ _He needs healing,” she said. “So tell me why you want him healed.”_

“ _I don't understand.”_

“ _I think you understand perfectly.”_

 

Night was falling. The world glowed with an unearthly light.

Tina and Percival were seated on the porch. On further inspection of the property there were several wicker chairs left out, and so they had dragged them out to the back of the house to look out at the river and the dock. There had been a porch swing, too, but it had been on the other side of the house, and they'd wanted to look at the water while it was still light out. Violetta had lingered, and her presence had seemed to slow time; when she left, Tina was shocked to find out that hours had passed and the day had grown late.

The both of them were seated in separate chairs, smoking – regular cigarettes, from Percival's cigarette case. The air was full of the sound of birds and bugs and running water, and Tina thought about how little of the outdoors she'd experienced, in her life. “My first cigarette was when I was fifteen,” she found herself saying. She was sitting sideways, her legs dangling over one arm of the chair. Percival was close enough to rest his hand on one of her ankles.

“Oh?”

“From Joseph Stiles,” she sighed. “Merlin, he was so handsome. He got them from his older brother, smuggled them in after winter holidays.”

“Was he your first kiss, too?”

“He was a lot of my firsts,” Tina said, and Percival laughed, low and throaty.

She had never spoken so easily with a man before, not one she was interested in, anyway. But Percival was different, probably because they had started out on this jaunt together as mentor and protege, and speaking thoughts aloud was a cornerstone to that. She wasn't afraid that if she told him something he would hold it against her, the way most men would; anger that they weren't her first love, or perturbed by how well she kissed, suggesting she'd had practice. And if something did displease him? For once, Tina felt confident enough to decide it didn't truly matter. She was by now far too used to telling him the truth – maybe not the whole truth, but a truth nonetheless.

“Who was _your_ first kiss?” she asked.

“Also a Joe,” he said. “Josephine Delacour. She was trying to make her boyfriend jealous. She succeeded.”

“How romantic.”

He smoothed his hand over her ankle, and squeezed it gently. It felt wonderful. “What do you think Violetta uses that boat for?” he wondered aloud.

They both watched it, shifting back and forth on its tether. “Maybe she has neighbours,” she suggested.

“Or maybe she goes out at night to talk to the alligators.”

“I bet she does.”

He sat forward, leaning down to grind the remains of his cigarette out on the ashtray, sitting on the ground between them. “Come on,” he said. “I want to take a look at the dock.”

She cast her gaze out and upwards, but he made an impatient noise. “It's not night _yet_ ,” he pointed out, holding out his hand.

Unable to argue with that she swung her legs down from the chair and took his hand; as soon as she was on her feet he was tugging her down the path. The scent of the wilderness here was very distinctive; Tina, who had only known New York State and Ilvermorny, found it to be an exceedingly heady smell. Water, plants, rot, it all intermingled in a way until she felt like she was in a strange, displaced state.

They stood on the dock, looking out at the water. It was impossible to tell how deep it was; it was murky and hard to see through and, in fact, Tina would have guessed it not to have a current at all were it not for the gentle shifting of that little boat.

He was still holding her hand, and Tina smoothed her fingertips against his palm. “Are we working?” she asked, suddenly.

He had seemed lost in thought. Whether it was a remnant of the herbs he had smoked earlier or simply a response to the sleeping wildness around them, she couldn't tell. “Hm?” he murmured, not looking at her.

“Are we working on the case?” she asked. “We don't know how long we'll be here. But we have all of our files. We could go through them. And we can give each other a rundown of last night.”

He didn't respond for some time. They watched bubbles in the water, drifting up from the mysterious parts underneath. Tina sent her gaze outward, at the trees that stood alone like crucifixes from the water, at the tangle of greenery, at the shadows growing in the depths.

“I feel like we're missing something,” Percival remarked. “There's an answer, there. We've seen so much but we haven't understood. What do you think, Tina?”

She thought of the dolls Percival didn't know about, thought of things he might have hidden from her so far. He was, after all, her superior, and did not report to her. But even if so, perhaps he was just as stumped as she was.

“I would agree,” she said. “We're missing something. I don't know if it's in front of us or hidden, but whatever it is we can't see it.”

He squeezed her hand, gently. “Then no,” he said. “We aren't working.”

“No?”

“Whenever I have a particularly stubborn case,” he said, “I've always felt it best to step back. Our minds untangle themselves naturally when we alter our focus. This is the best chance we'll get, maybe in a long while, to do just that.”

“What do you normally do? Do you run off to the swamps of Louisiana?”

He smiled at her. Oh, he was so beautiful when he smiled; he did it so rarely in New York. “No,” he said. “Sometimes I visit Gloria and Antoine. Or my cousin. Sometimes I attempt to play guitar. I'm terrible at it.”

She laughed.

“It's getting dark,” he said, turning away from the water. “Come on.”

They trekked back to the cabin, still hand in hand. As they walked Tina felt the hair on the back of her neck raise, just a bit; she resisted the urge to glance back over her shoulder.

“I've never really spent time with you outside of work,” she said, suddenly, when they were back on the porch. She was not sure what possessed her to say it.

Percival turned to look at her. There he was; Percival Graves of MACUSA, frightening and impressive and handsome, glorified as the face of the modern wizarding government. The man who made grown women giggle when he smiled at them, turned men loud and boasting and brash when he was in their hearing.

But also the loving uncle to eight wonderful children, her defender and teacher, and also something else, now. The owner of strong arms that held her in the dark, the giver of a kiss that made her weak in the knees.

“Of course you have,” he said, and she believed him.

 

.

 

One by one, they took out their wands and lit the lanterns. Said lanterns hung from the roof overhanging the porch, sat on side tables within the cabin, dangled from the ceiling; they glowed like yellow streetlights, or red coals, or orange sunrises.

Percival was already feeling better. The exhaustion that had dogged him for the better part of thirty-six hours – over half of which, he felt, he'd spent sleeping – had started to abate and he was feeling slightly closer to normal. He was still in pain but it was not quite so debilitating, and easily handled with the remedies Violetta had prescribed for him – herb mixtures which could either be steeped as a tea or smoked. She had also recommended alcohol, though not just any kind. “I have a selection in the cupboards,” she'd said. “I let Tina know which ones will heal and which will knock you dead. Hopefully she copied it down right.”

“Of course I copied it down right,” she said, with a huff, when he had teased her about it later.

Now that night had fallen, he had noticed a particularly notable turn in Tina, who had gone from calm and relaxed out on the porch to oddly determined inside the cabin. It was as if his statement that they were no longer working had spooked her.

She had no need for nerves, but he didn't want to insult her by assuming that was what it was. Acting like he had the answers to everything was a tactic best used in the office or when he was trying to get Seraphina off his back. It certainly wasn't conducive to interaction with Tina, who at the moment defied any kind of definition he could place her in. He definitely couldn't think of her as his employee at the moment.

She was going all about in the kitchen area, skirt swishing about her with how quick her movements were. Maybe it had just occurred to her that they were, for the first time in awhile, effectively alone. _Very_ alone. That fact had not passed his notice, either.

He was sitting on the couch, rolling a cigarette out of the painkillers – very slowly due to his shoulder, but managing the task nonetheless. He had been wary of it at first until he'd drunk it as a tea, during which he'd managed to keep most of his wits about him. It seemed completely unlike the first mix Violetta had dosed him with, and he was glad; he had very little memory of what he had thought about on those drugs, except for the fact it had been deeply unsettling, and he didn't care for it.

“What are you doing, Tina?” he asked, looking up over the rolling paper. He expertly tucked the bottom paper underneath the top, twisting it out smoothly. It was nice to see he hadn't lost his touch since he'd started smoking the pre-rolled packs.

Tina gave him an annoyed look. “Starting to cook dinner,” she said.

“ _Can_ you cook?” he queried.

She went a bit red. “Of course I can.”

“I only ask because two years ago you brought those brownies to the office,” he said, lighting the cigarette. “Don't you know why everyone asks 'Oh, was Queenie baking again?' every time you show up with something?”

He could tell she wanted to look annoyed, but the facade was cracking under the force of a small smile. “I'm surprised you remember that,” she said. “But that's baking, not cooking.”

“I remember because Vidal asked me to alert Poison Control.”

“He did not!”

He motioned her over. “Come here,” he said.

“Is that an order?”

“It is a hopeful request.”

She shook her head, smiling, and walked over to him. “I hope you don't get all funny again,” she said, sitting down beside him and eyeing his cigarette. He held it out to her and she shrank back in surprise. “Me?” she asked.

“It's quite calming, and you seem nervous,” he said. “If you'll excuse my saying. No – not nervous. Worried.”

“I told you last night, I'm fine,” she assured him. He was certain she was telling the truth – but, then again, he was also aware she hadn't expressly stated that she _wasn't_ worried. It was possible to be both – Percival had a lot of anecdotal evidence from his own life to back it up.

“Very well,” he said, and patted his knee.

She looked at him, so he did it again, a bit more forcefully. “Up you get, Miss Goldstein,” he said, hoping she was not immune to this particular brand of rakishness.

She tipped her head to the side and gave him a sort of amused, crooked grin which told him she definitely wasn't. “Alright,” she said, pretending to huff, and clambered onto his lap. She started to laugh as she curled up against him; she was not petite and her legs stuck out across the couch, her chin pressed to his cheek. She snapped her fingers and held out her hand, and he passed the cigarette obligingly over. “You're worrying over my being worried,” she mused, sounding a bit cottony as she spoke through smoke. “Is that something you do often?”

“I do worry,” he admitted, taking the cigarette back. He had to use his right hand to smoke in such a position, but seeing as how the cigarette itself was dampening the pain, that was not such a large issue. “Constantly, it seems.”

“You know, my friend Newt always says that worrying is just suffering twice,” she mused. “It's good advice.”

“Perhaps I'll take it if I ever meet him.”

“You would like him,” she said.

“Is he likable?”

“Not really,” she said, and he had to chuckle at that. “No, it's true. I didn't really like him at first, when I met him. I guess... I guess people expect him to try to cater to them and he doesn't. Not that's he's rude or anything, not on purpose or out of meanness. It's hard to say. He's just... different.”

“And I would like that?”

Tina curled in a bit more, so that she could duck her head down and they were cheek to cheek. It was impossible to read her expression when she was close like that, so he was certain she did it on purpose. “I think you understand things better than most people,” she said. “So you'd be able to understand him.”

They sat in silence, listening to the gentle creaks within the house, the crackle of the fireplace. Tina smoothed her hand over his chest and sighed against his neck. “Can I ask you a question?” she said it quiet and soft, as if imparting a secret.

“Always.”

“When we get back to New York, will you pretend none of this happened?” she whispered. “Or will you ask me out? Tell me the truth,” she added, hand sliding up to the side of his neck. “I can feel your pulse, Mr Graves. I can tell if you're lying.”

He smiled a little, not at her question but at her warning. “I'm going to ask you to dinner,” he said. “And drinks, and dancing, if you're amenable. I'm not really one for the theatre, but we could go to a production if that's something you're interested in-”

She pressed her mouth to his, angling her head to the side to get as deep as she could. Her lips were slightly chapped, with an edge of lemon sugar at the corner of her mouth; and her nails dragged up the back of his head, sending a tremor down his spine. He wrapped his free arm around her and pinioned her close to his chest, not that she seemed to want to go anywhere else.

They kissed until their breath came raggedly through their noses but Percival had no intention in pulling away and she didn't seem to, either. They kissed until Percival's cigarette burned low and singed his fingertips, at which point he dropped it on the floor and Tina toppled out of his lap in her rush to get to it. “You idiot!” she cried from the floor, patting out the smoulder on the carpet.

“I was distracted,” he defended, and she started to laugh, so hard he was wondering if he ought to be embarrassed or just pleased at the reaction. He decided on the latter – she sounded so happy, it would be a crime to curse it.

 

When night had truly fallen, Percival stood at one of the windows, gazing out into the darkness.

“Percival?”

“Come here, city girl,” he said, motioning for her to join him.

She stepped up beside him as he unlatched the window, and they leaned out into the night air. He watched her eyebrows draw up in surprise and then she closed her eyes, as if to better listen. All sorts of clicks and chirps, unending, high pitched and low; confused squawks and a ticking noise; water; the hooting of owls and something else, calling into the night, low and moaning, a sound that prickled uneasily at the back of his neck.

“It's so loud,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“What's that call?” she murmured, and he knew she was referring to that other noise, that seemed so close yet incredibly far away, a cry for help or maybe a warning.

“I'm not sure,” he said. “Perhaps one of the many things Violetta warned us from meeting.”

“It sounds sad,” she said. Her eyes were open again and she was staring out into the darkness. The gleam from the house only reached a few dripping trees and vines; beyond that, everything was murky.

Drawn, perhaps, by the tone of her voice, or the expression in her eyes – or really just her, standing so close to him – he leaned over and pressed a kiss just below her earlobe. She smiled prettily, casting her gaze down at the window ledge. “Do you want to sit outside?” he asked against her ear.

“No,” she shook her head. “I think... we should change your bandage. Come on.”

Working with the directions Violetta had apparently left her with, Tina changed Percival's dressing for him. Unlike when she'd fussed with rolling the cigarette, she seemed much more calm and collected this time – probably because the discolouration in his skin had clearly gone down, and he wasn't writhing in pain. He wasn't surprised. They all underwent the same standard field dressing training, after all, and besides that Tina was becoming more confident with every new trial she faced.

“Your hands are steadier,” he noted.

“And your pupils are smaller,” she replied, giving him a pat on the head. “Good job.”

“You think you're cute, don't you?”

“I just know you look at me like I am,” she retorted. “Well, since you don't believe in my cooking skills, I'm going to pour us a drink.”

She did more than just that, he noted. In one corner of the house she lit a candle; in the next, she shook out chunks of something into a charcoal burner, and a heady scent began to fill the air, reminiscent of jasmine. “What are you doing?” he enquired, as she filled a vase with water in another corner.

“Violetta told me to do this,” she said, not looking up from her work.

“Hm.”

“She mentioned to me that she used to take on students,” Tina continued, doing something he couldn't see in the fourth corner before digging through a cabinet in the living area. She located a clear bottle full of red liquid; like wine but much more viscous. He could tell because she was emptying it out into a saucepan, which floated above a magical fire, burning midair. “I wonder if she still does.”

“What in Merlin's name is that?” he asked.

“Some kind of fortified wine concoction?” she guessed. “Violetta recommended it. It has a homemade label on it. We might be unconscious for days.”

“Interesting. Well, as for teaching I wouldn't be surprised. As far as I know Violetta Beauvais doesn't have any family she likes; she might be passing on her secrets to a select few. Maybe even to you, Tina.”

She snorted, pouring the wine out into wooden mugs and heading over to him. “Doubtful.”

She curled up against him again, this time beside him but with her legs thrown across his lap. “How did you get shot, anyway?” she asked. “You never told me.”

“At The Dame. I wasn't exactly expecting it, so I wasn't able to block it.”

She patted his chest as if to mollify him. “That's alright,” she said, her tone so smooth he knew she was making fun of him. “Can't be perfect all the time.”

They sat there, quietly drinking. It was a strange concoction, sweet and heavy, and Tina seemed to like it; she was already done with hers by the time he was halfway through his, and he just passed it over to her to finish off. It tasted better on her lips, he discovered, when they shared a few lingering kisses. The energy from earlier had dissipated again and she seemed languid, happy to just snuggle against him and move her lips over his mouth and cheek and jaw.

The house was so quiet that even the calls from the swamp outside were muted and distant, like a conversation many rooms away. “Tell me a secret,” she murmured into his jaw.

He turned his head, felt her hair tickling his cheek. “What kind of secret?”

“A really good one,” Tina said. “Not the kind that might come up in a conversation. Something deep down.”

“Does it have to be good or bad?”

“Any kind.”

“Do I get a secret in return?”

“You do.”

He smoothed his hand up and down her back as he thought, feeling the sharp jut of her shoulder blades, the dip of her spine. She curled against him in response, hand still playing over his chest; he knew without looking that she had begun to caress the smattering of chest hair just visible above the collar of his undershirt.

“I only learned to swim after I turned eight,” he said.

He half-expected her to scoff, or to needle him, question the merit of that secret, but she didn't. Tina seemed to understand that not everything needed to be revealed all at once. “Why eight?” she asked, after a moment of contemplation.

“I grew up in this family that...” he paused. He disliked talking about his family, because he always ended up sounding more bitter than he truly was. “Always had everything done for them. Don't get me wrong. There's talent in us.”

“Your last name is kind of a big deal at MACUSA,” she agreed, gently teasing.

“Yes, that. There's talent, but also this ridiculous way of looking at the world, like things will always work out for us. All this privilege that we've decided to stop fighting for, and we take it for granted. So I grew up living between this country estate, and this ridiculously expensive house in Maryland. The estate has a pond. When I was eight, my little brother fell in. He was five.”

“And that's how you learned how to swim?”

He had to laugh, even though it wasn't particularly funny. “How supernatural do you think I am, Tina? No, that is not how I learned how to swim. I stood on the lawn and I watched my brother nearly drown and I could do absolutely nothing to stop it except scream for help. That's how ridiculous my family was – still is. Even if your untrained children are playing next to a body of water, what bad could happen? Our groundskeeper Helga ended up diving in and pulling him out. I only learned how to swim because the very next day I asked Helga to teach me whenever my parents were away. My brother, on the other hand, still doesn't know how to swim, and he's the one that nearly drowned.”

She was silent for a moment, clearly trying to choose which path in the conversation to take. He adored her for picking the sensitive route. “How did she teach you?”

“Oh, she'd chuck me in and watch me flail around, fish me out, and did it over and over again. She wasn't actually trained for education. Her job was to tend the hedges and the flowerbeds, not teach spoilt little snots how to tread water.”

Tina laughed. “I know why you told me that secret,” she said, softly, trailing a fingertip over his collarbone. He shivered.

“Oh?”

“That's why you work so hard,” she said. “That's why you always do your best. Because feeling helpless is a terrible thing. I know. I've felt it, too.”

He turned his head, shifting a bit so he could look at her. Her eyes seemed a little bit watery, but he didn't remark on it. “What about your secret?” he said. “I'm all ears.”

“I've always been a little bit in love with you,” she said.

She said it so calmly, in such a lovely way, that Percival wasn't tempted to take it as a compliment; rather she spoke as if there was something else there she wanted to say, so he waited.

“Everyone in the department is a little bit in love with you,” she continued, after a moment. “The idea of you; the impression you leave when you're somewhere else. Even the men, though they'd be too embarrassed to think of it that way. All of the best leaders are loved. And I think all of the best leaders love their followers, in the same way... the idea of them. Their impression.”

Percival moved to kiss her temple, and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “You're far more than an idea, Tina Goldstein,” he said. “Especially to me.”

“That's not the secret... I'm not fishing for a declaration from you,” she said, suddenly. “As much as I'd like that, please don't think that. It's only... Violetta asked me a question today and the more I thought about it, the more frightened I became. It's been burning me up inside ever since. So you were right before, I am worried. But I've made peace with it.” She met his gaze. “I'm glad I'm worried. About the impression you leave, when you're somewhere else.”

“What was the question?” he prodded.

Tina didn't answer, but she held his gaze. In slow, purposeful movements, she shifted on the couch, drawing her legs from his lap. But she did not leave; instead she moved closer, seating herself on his lap, tugging her skirts up over her knees so she could properly straddle him.

He smoothed his palms up her thighs and over her hips until he was holding her waist, but she took his face in her hands and directed his gaze upwards. She did not blink or flinch from his gaze, and so he held it steadily, not daring to break eye contact.

“I can't say it yet,” she whispered, raggedly, and before he could protest to that she kissed him.

He had kissed her so many times by now – as Tina, as Mariana – but this one was different than all the rest. It was not that it lacked passion, or love, or eagerness, because all of those things were there. It was that it was hungry.

He felt the insistent tug of her hands in his hair, the warm weight of her as she leaned into him, but all of that seemed to dim in comparison to the hot slick of her tongue against his. It was messy and ungraceful at first, teeth clashing and biting, but then Tina seemed to melt against him in that perfect angle, and silly concerns like thinking or breathing went out the window.

When he curled his tongue against the roof of her mouth she shivered against him, producing a noise in the back of her throat that made his stomach clench, and she rolled her hips down into his lap.

She tugged away at his groan, staring down at him with a flushed, eager look. “You need to tell me if I hurt you,” she said, one of her hands fluttering uncertainly over his injured shoulder.

In answer he grabbed her hips and dragged her up against him so she fell against his chest with a squeak of surprise. “I'd take another bullet for you to keep going,” he said against her mouth, and she whacked him playfully on the chest.

“Not funny,” she hissed, but she was smiling.

“Kind of funny.”

“Shut _up_ , Percival Graves!” she laughed, beginning to hurriedly undo the buttons of her blouse. “Stupid,” she kissed him. “Idiot,” she kissed him again. Her blouse dropped to the floor.

Percival knew his way around a woman's undergarments, and from Tina's slim build he'd always known she could get away with wearing the bare minimum, but he'd have happily ripped through a corset to get to her. Brassiere gone, he ran his mouth over her bare skin. Her necklace draped down her chest and between her breasts, the violet-shaped charm swinging a few inches above her navel.

The sight of the necklace was the most undeniable piece of evidence he'd ever seen as to her intentions. How long she had been thinking about this, he didn't know; and he was in absolutely no position to argue even if he'd wanted to. He smoothed his hands over her abdomen and cupped her breasts in his palms, rubbing the pads of his thumbs over her nipples. Already pebbled from being exposed to air, they now hardened even more at his touch.

Her nails dug sharply into the back of his head when he bent to drag his tongue over a nipple. He took her moan and the arch of her back as invitation, sucking at the hardened tips until she was writhing in his lap.

She was intoxicating. The pain in his shoulder had burnt into little more than a vague memory, and instead he felt drunk on her; the salty taste of her skin, a scent of roses that clung to her, the smoky incense that had filled the room but seemed distinctly _her_ as well, surrounding him. His thoughts were full of only Tina and each excruciating movement of her body, the muscles that flickered under his touch, the thighs that tightened around his hips. He wanted her, he ached for her.

She was dragging her nails over his stomach and unbuttoning his trousers. It was certainly no secret that she had aroused him, as she had been grinding herself down against him for the better part of... five minutes? Ten? He couldn't tell. Time was completely irrelevant. She worked her hand beneath his drawers and wrapped her fingers around his cock.

He groaned against her chest, which heaved from her own gasp. “I need you,” she breathed hoarsely, pushing him roughly back against the couch so she could kiss him again, teeth dragging over his bottom lip.

His hands fumbled with her skirt, pushing it up over her hips. “Good,” he growled against her mouth.

They were an unholy tangle and yet both unwilling to relent; she refused to move and he couldn't even think of trying to convince her to do anything of the kind. Somehow, they were able to drag off her underwear and work his trousers down to his knees without her budging from him.

He tangled his fingers into her hair as she hiked up her skirts and shifted in his lap, sinking down onto him. He groaned but he didn't hear his own voice, his ears too full of her little, gasping moans as she wriggled and shifted, seating herself onto his cock.

She might have gasped “You feel so good,” or that might have been himself speaking. He dragged her mouth down to his for another kiss, nipping at her mouth, and she breathed out his name in a way that vibrated deep in his belly.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her forehead against his, locking eyes with him. Her lips were swollen, her pupils blown wide with desire, her cheeks flushed. She was spellbinding. And through it all she began to move her hips, rising and falling, working herself on top of him.

One of his hands slid down between her shoulder blades and to the small of her back, guiding each thrust of her hips. His other hand slipped underneath her bunched skirts and touched her where she was hot and wet and she whimpered in surprise and pleasure.

“Yes,” she ground out, biting his lips. He circled her clit with his fingertip and she bucked against him.

After that he was lost in the taste of her mouth, the scent of her sweat, the weight of her body on his. He slicked his fingers against her, egged on by her increasingly needy whimpers, the slide of his cock inside of her.

He barely felt it when her nails dug into his scalp, surely deep enough to draw blood. Instead there was only the way she tightened around him as she climaxed, crying out against his mouth. He grabbed at her hips to guide her and with a few more thrusts he came as well, spilling himself inside of her with a groan.

He fell back against the couch and she collapsed against his chest in turn, trembling, her wet mouth finding his earlobe and sucking at it even as she panted, trying to get her breath back. Her hands had turned gentle, stroking over his arms and down his chest.

He circled an arm around her waist and nuzzled his face into her hair, the roots damp with sweat. The ghost of roses touched his nose and he thought back to listening to her report while she bathed that evening in New Orleans, and staying in the room with her afterwards, soothing her through her nightmares. The smell of roses followed him everywhere after that.

It appeared that neither of them had the heart to move, even when the sweat was drying on their skin and their breathing had evened out. He rubbed at the back of her neck and she nuzzled him, so tender and sweet.

“What did Violetta ask you?” he murmured.

She was quiet for so long he wondered if she had fallen asleep on top of him, but finally she shifted, pulling back slightly so she could look at him, and he was surprised to see the glitter of tears clinging to her eyelashes.

“She asked me how I'd feel today, if you'd been shot in the head instead of the shoulder,” she said, her voice uneven, from emotion or crying out his name, he couldn't tell.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her, softly. “Let's go to bed,” he whispered. “I missed sleeping with you last night.”

She smiled, pleased, and kissed the bridge of his nose.

 

.

 

It was early morning, still dark, but Tina could not sleep any longer. She also couldn't find it in her to wake up Percival, who was resting. He was just as beautiful asleep as he was awake, she decided, admiring the delicate fan of his eyelashes against his cheeks, the smoothness of his brow.

She itched to check on his shoulder, but something – like her bone-deep exhaustion, somehow present next to her jittery energy – told her she needn't worry. So, without anything else to do, she decided to carefully sneak out of bed, heading into the bathroom. A warm wash would soothe her, and perhaps she would be able to sleep again.

In the bathroom, she was surprised to find an actual shower. Sure, she had noticed that the creature comforts in the cabin were far and away above what one would expect in a tiny little building in the middle of nowhere, tucked into the mysterious depths of swamp and jungle. But not even Tina had a shower in her building and she lived in New York. It was the kind of thing usually found in newer places. Then again, if anyone were to have paradise in the middle of nowhere, it would be Violetta Beauvais.

Anyway, Tina wasn't about to complain. She liked showers far more than baths; it was like standing beneath a warm rush of rain. It might be a bit louder than a bath, and she'd risk waking Percival; but perhaps he'd request another round if he was roused, so certainly that couldn't be a bad thing if he was going to be such a light sleeper.

It took her a moment to figure out the knobs, but on looking closer she saw every temperature noted, running from 'Iceberg' to 'Lava'. She got the gauge between 'forgotten tea' and 'soup', and, shaking her head at the labels (she definitely had to tell Queenie later) she got in.

Tina closed her eyes and leaned her face into the rush of water. The warm water flew down around her, soaking her hair flat to the back of her head; when she ran her hands over and around she felt the perfect curve of her skull. She wondered what it looked like; maybe she should cut the rest of her hair off, after all.

She knew exactly the shape of Percival's head, the perfect curve of it, first by eye but now by hand. She closed her eyes and leaned her face into the burst of water, her mind running to earlier that afternoon, sitting at the table with Violetta, while Percival slept. _I think you understand perfectly._

 

“ _I think you understand perfectly,” Violetta said._

“ _I don't.”_

_Surely, Violetta could not have noticed anything? She hadn't even seen them together, not like Gloria had. Was there a way Tina held herself that suggested the truer nature of things? But those ended up being fanciful thoughts, because the older woman just shrugged and said, “I have to know what his options are, so I asked.”_

“ _What options do you mean?”_

“ _I mean I can heal him up,” Violetta said, around a mouthful of lemon biscuit, “but healing, it's a combination of two things, at least the old way. These days we have remedies that do all the work for us, but the serious stuff sometimes needs more than that. Percival Graves has to heal himself as much as the remedies do.”_

_Tina propped her chin in the heel of her hand, staring at Violetta with interest. “You're talking about inner strength,” she said._

_The woman grinned, as if pleased Tina had said it before she did. “That I am,” she said. “Strength of the body, the mind and the soul. I can give him the medicine, but he's going to have to do something with it. And if it's Dark magic, it's going to take a lot.”_

“ _He's strong.”_

“ _I don't doubt that,” Violetta shrugged. “I've read the stories. What I'm saying is, there are options. We can get him back on his feet quicker, with less wear and tear to his body and soul.”_

“ _How?”_

“ _You got to share your strength,” she said, simply. “It's as easy as an exchange. Like food for the soul. Energy passing from one to the other. But you need to get_ close.”

_Tina blushed. “Oh.”_

“ _So how do you feel? Are you fond of him? You find him attractive? Or maybe you're the type who likes women, or the type who likes nobody at all. I won't judge.”_

_Tina took a gulp of tea, but Violetta was watching her, clearly not about to continue on until Tina chimed in. “I like him fine,” she said, neutrally. “He's very handsome.”_

“ _Good! That's good. And you're quite pretty, make no mistake, so probably no issues on his end.” Tina could not believe this conversation was taking place. “Well, now that's established, do you love him?”_

_Now that,_ that _was an entirely different question altogether. It didn't make her nervous – rather, it_ _brought far too many confusing thoughts to the surface_ _“I don't know,” she blurted out_ _without thinking_ _, but Violetta just looked cross._

“ _What do you_ _mean, you don't_ know _?” she snapped. “You love or you don't.”_

“ _It's too early.”_

“ _Ha!” Violetta dismissed that with a snort. “I supposed you'd think that. But look at it this way. A daisy is still a daisy, even when it's a seed freshly planted. Sure it hasn't sprouted yet, but it's waiting for the right time. It's gonna sprout and curl up towards the surface, and it's gonna bloom and then – poof! You've got a flower. But it's a daisy, always was, no matter what the stage. Now tell me, you in love or not? You can tell me. It'll be between me and you and maybe him, if you so will it.”_

_Tina looked down at the table, at the polished whorls of wood scattered with biscuit crumbs and droplets of tea. “Yes,” she said, quietly._

“ _Good,” Violetta said, picking up another biscuit – her third. “Then you ought to make love to him, then.”_

_Tina practically spit her tea out._

“ _It's nothing to be shocked by,” Violetta said, unperturbed, handing the coughing Tina a handkerchief. “It's a lovely rush, physically – but, oh, feelings make it_ so _much better. A mediocre lover becomes the greatest of Casanovas, when there's love to feed on. And if we throw some healing into the mix, well, then that's a double reason to be happy in the morning.”_

“ _I don't know if we're there yet,” Tina sputtered into her handkerchief, mostly trying to cough up the bits of tea stuck in her throat._

“ _When would be a good time, then?” Violetta asked. “Next week? Next month? Next year, maybe.”_

“ _I don't know. No one's ever talked to me about this, before,” she hedged._

“ _You a virgin?”_

“ _No.”_

“ _How old are you?”_

“ _Twenty-five.”_

“ _Well_ _damn_ _!” Violetta exclaimed. “It's a good thing you're getting the talk_ now _!”_

“ _It's just... it's new. We're new.”_

“ _I'm not gonna give you a reason to do anything,” Violetta said, splitting open her biscuit and spreading jam on it. “All women need to make their own decisions and I fully support that. I'm just going to ask you a single question and you can draw your reasoning from your answer.”_

_Tina warily lowered the handkerchief. “What, then?”_

_The old women waved her butter knife in the direction of the bedroom. “We're all in danger, every day,” she said. “Life is a series of moments, one after the other, and they stack up on top of each other and if the fates are kind it adds up to a whole day, and then hopefully we get to start a new one. We don't know where we'll be, one moment to the next. We fool ourselves into thinking tomorrow is always certain, but it isn't. You're an Auror. You know this is true.”_

_She stared down at the tabletop again._

“ _So what I want to ask you, Tina,” she continued. “Is if last night, during one moment to the next, Percival Graves was shot in the head instead of the shoulder, how would you be feeling now?”_

 

Tina wondered, even if her mother was still alive, if she would have spoken so frankly about such a thing. There was no way of knowing, though, and she'd had to face it on her own. Tina had grown up understanding that as the older sister she had to go out into the world and experience things first, so that she might report back to Queenie; that way her little sister could learn from her mistakes, without experiencing the pain of making them.

And so she had chased boys, been with boys, and then after graduating Ilvermorny she had pursued men and been with men. And that had more or less been that; emotions had rarely gotten in the way of things or, when they did, Tina rarely found herself with the opportunity to follow them to their end.

It hadn't seemed to matter too much to Queenie, though she understood what Tina had been trying to do. “It's alright,” she'd said. “We'll make our own way. One or both of us might get married one day, but it's just fine if we don't. We can be two little old witches sharing a room until the end of time, and I'll be happy as any woman has a right to be.”

Percival, though; he changed things, he sent a vibration rocketing through her at the very thought of him. She fiddled with the necklace she still wore, the flower petals glittering with droplets of water. She could definitely do worse.

She began to soap up her hair. All she had to do now was explain that seducing him had been a two-birds-with-one-stone act and hope he wouldn't be angry. She hadn't wanted to tell him beforehand, afraid he might see it as her hiding behind an excuse to be with him, and she didn't want there to be any excuses. She just wanted _him_. And if she could make him whole at the same time, so much the better.

Because Violetta had been right. Why wait another day, week, or year? Tina could be dead tomorrow, and she didn't like to think of Percival gone. The impression he left behind when he was absent, now, was too deep for her to ignore.

 

“ _North is for earth, south for fire, west for water and east for air,” Violetta explained. “Grave dirt, candlelight, water and incense. The centre is where we harness our energies, at the line dividing the spirit world from the physical. The centre is where we work. It's where_ you're _going to work, should you will it.”_

“ _And he'll heal?”_

“ _If you've the strength, he will. But it_ _will work best_ _if you love him. Love is the oldest magic there is,_ _Tina,_ _older than pain. Older than the dark.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand longest chapter yet, whoo. Man I have to start writing shorter chapters?? Also shorter author's notes, maybe.
> 
> The descriptions of Tina's work with the sex magic was going to be more detailed, but then I decided against it. That being said, if you're a practitioner you can probably recognize a bunch of what Tina was doing in the background as respectful nods to actual hoodoo. If anyone is interested in reading up on hoodoo or New Orleans voodoo I'd be happy to make book recommendations; print sources from practitioners are your best bet as opposed to random info floating around the internet, which could be written by any crazy idiot with a keyboard (like me!). I will say Tina's work with the cosmograms carved into Violetta's floors are based off of a widely practiced belief of attributing various directions with elements, along with very old ideas concerning the crossroads and the meeting of four directions. 
> 
> The scene of Percival playfully getting Tina to hop up on his knee was something I SHAMELESSLY stole from a deleted scene from _Saving Mr Banks_ , called 'Stargaze'. Look it up on Youtube if you want to get all twitterpated over Colin for, like, the millionth time.
> 
> Lastly, this is weird, but here's a shout out to historical accuracy: did you know unless you were some sort of dancer, women in the '20s didn't shave their legs? They shaved their underarms because of the sleeveless dresses (hence Queenie taking the razor to Tina earlier) but stockings made leg-shaving pointless. So Percival's got his hands all over Tina's fuzzy legs, and you bet he likes it, yo. *fistbump*


	15. what can grow without rain?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote multiple versions of Percival and Tina's conversation, in multiple settings at different levels of seriousness. This version that I settled on is the sweetest, I think.  
> NSFW.

Rinsing herself off, Tina climbed out of the tub, reaching for a towel.

Wrapping it around herself she opened the door about half a foot, then all the way when she saw the bedroom was now deserted. There was a small, glowing ball hovering near the ceiling, casting a dim, white light across the rumpled bedspread. Percival had clearly woken and made himself scarce, getting dressed as he did so.

Feeling a knot of worry in her stomach, Tina cast a drying spell on her hair and dug out her robe. Belting it closed, she stepped over to the bedroom door, which was slightly ajar, and looked out. The cabin was dim, but she could still see there was no one there as well.

The lanterns on the porch, though, were on, and Tina scented swamp water and cigarette smoke wafting in from outside; the front door had been left open. She padded on bare feet over to it, peering around the corner.

Percival was sitting on the porch swing, apparently lost in thought, cigarette perched elegantly in his hand and smoke curling up around him. He was looking away from her, into the darkness. He had taken the bandage off of his shoulder and she saw that while the skin looked raw it glinted only with the pink of a newly-healed scar. She was too nervous to feel proud of herself or pleased for him, because something was eating at him and she could see it from all the way over where she was standing.

“I know you're there, Tina,” he said, without looking.

She pressed her forehead to the door jamb. “I know,” she said. “I was waiting for you to invite me.”

He turned his head towards her, just slightly, and she saw the clean lines of his profile. “You don't need an invitation,” he said. “With me you can come and go, however you please.”

She stepped around the door and walked slowly over to him. “It's a bit early for a cigarette.” She said it as a statement, but they both knew it was a question.

“I'm worried,” he said.

“Remember what I said about being worried?”

Her attempt at levity did not work. “I was with a beautiful woman a few hours ago,” he said. “At the time I could only think about how much I wanted her. Then I woke to an empty bed and in her absence I found myself wondering: what was her name? Was she Tina Goldstein, or Mariana Moon? It's the kind of question that can keep a man up at night. I only want one of them, even though they may look the same.”

A rush of emotions hit Tina, all at once, but the biggest one was fear. What did he mean? Did he feel betrayed by her? Or worse, maybe he was just trying to tell her that he didn't want Tina, he wanted Mariana – a creature more compelling and desirable than Tina could ever be.

And maybe he knew that she would feel this fear, uncertainty in which woman she thought he may want, forcing her to make a decision – the truth, or more lies – without knowing which was most advantageous. In the back of her mind she had to applaud that; Percival Graves was nothing if not clever, able to work and manipulate others' emotions to get the job done. But in the forefront she felt only panic at the thought of something important slipping from her grasp before she even really had a chance to enjoy holding it.

She sat on the porch swing, a good distance between them. She wasn't afraid of him – Percival Graves was not the sort to produce violence unprovoked, especially not to a lover or a friend, she was completely aware of that. She was just afraid of what he would say next, however, suddenly aware that each word may tilt and turn her life about in a way she did not want.

“I thought I was being quite clear,” she said, finally, hating how small her voice sounded.

“I'm sure you were.”

Tina couldn't help it; a small scowl began to force its way onto her face. _Impossible man_ , she thought. “I gave myself to you,” she reminded him.

“You were performing a ritual.”

Tina clasped her hands together, as if to illustrate her point. “One came with the other,” she said, simply. “It was an easy decision to make.”

“To have sex with me?”

“ _To try to heal you_ ,” she corrected, unperturbed by his rather brash statement. “I was going to seduce you anyway.”

Finally he turned his head to look at her, and she was pleased to see at least a glimmer of emotion on his face – surprise. “What?”

She shrugged, looking down at her knees. “I told you my secret,” she reminded him, softly. “The question Violetta asked me. I'd been thinking about it all day. About your blood on my dress, and your old scars, and my fear. Everything... else. Maybe it was selfish to take what I could, but I gave something back, at least.”

She started in surprise when she felt something brush her arm, only to find it had been Percival reaching out for her. He drew back, perhaps mistaking the flinch for something else. “You'll have to forgive an old man for his jilted pride,” he said, stiffly.

“Pride?” she asked dumbly.

He bent to rub out the remainder of his cigarette on the porch, and then flicked the butt out into the trees. “Suspecting you thought I was too foolish to notice you healed me,” he said. “Too stupid to be told in the first place. Or only desirable as a case for pity. Take your pick of any of those.”

Tina's mouth dropped open in shock.

“At the risk of sounding like my grandmother,” he said, “close that before a bee flies in.”

“Percival,” she said, slowly. “Of course I thought you'd notice, but I didn't do it just to heal you. That's why I didn't bring it up, I didn't want you to think that. And I also didn't even know if it would work.”

“Hm.” He looked like he was considering lighting another cigarette.

Remembering that she had flinched from him – perhaps he had construed it as disgust instead of surprise? – and they had yet to close the distance, she hurriedly moved to fix that, shifting down the swing to sit close to him. She felt him tense but he did not try to move or push her away. “A pity case, really?” she asked, propping her chin on his shoulder. “That _is_ foolish of you to think, Mr Graves.”

“So I'm not going to have to pretend to have a headache to get your attention?”

She laughed softly. “Of course not,” she murmured.

The relief that flooded through her when he put his arm around her made her sag against him. It felt natural to draw her legs up onto the bench and slide down until she had her cheek pillowed against his side. She felt his hand rubbing gently at the back of her neck. “Remind me who you are, again?” he asked.

“Tina,” she said, laughing again, no longer worried.

“That's who I was hoping for.”

She squeezed his knee. “And you're not old,” she added.

“I feel old.”

“Queenie says age is a concept directly related to how we view time.”

“Of course she'd say that; she's young.”

Tina snickered.

She was looking out into the trees, imagining she could see the creepers curling around the branches like snakes, so she couldn't see his face; but she could tell in his voice he was smiling at her. “Do you miss your sister?”

“I do. I wish I could ask her for advice right now.”

“On how to deal with me?”

“No, how to deal with me,” Tina smiled. “Queenie always knows my own mind better than I do. Everything becomes so clear to her.”

“Must be nice.”

“It is.” She turned her face closer against him, settled her hand on his stomach. She felt the firm press of muscle beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. “Can I ask you about something you might not want to talk about?” she asked.

She listened to him think about it. “I suppose you can,” he said.

Even though she had asked for permission, she still hesitated. “Grindelwald,” she said. “What was he like?”

She felt him tense underneath her hand and for a moment she thought she had woefully misstepped, but when he spoke he didn't sound angry. “Polite.”

That was not the answer she expected to hear. “Polite?”

“Exceedingly so. More polite than he was violent, though he was very much that, as well.”

She grimaced. It was not a nice thing to think about, Percival disappearing right under their noses. It frightened Tina, but angered her as well. “I'm so sorry. We should have-”

“What we all need to collectively understand about Grindelwald is he does not want to harm us,” Percival said, suddenly, interrupting her awkward apology – maybe for the best. She knew he probably didn't want to hear it anyway. “He will avoid it, if he can. We are what is most precious to him. I believe his dreams are haunted by dead wizarding children, and by obscurials, and by all those who have fallen to mankind. But he says, 'For the greater good', and for that he will still harm and mutilate his way through the world until he is victorious. He was keeping me alive because he felt he might have use of me later but also, I think, because nothing could be gained from my death.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me as much. He woke me a few times for a chat and we had tea together.”

Tina worked her way around to look up at him incredulously. “Really?”

He shrugged. “Yes. He had to check my vitals, make sure my brain activity was still up to par. He's not a wasteful man, you know; indiscriminate killing isn't his style. I doubt he was thinking of releasing me without an ulterior motive, and it might have ended in my death, certainly – but not without furthering his own plans.”

“I hate him,” Tina said, frankly, looking away. She didn't care how humanely he might have treated Percival; he took Credence and twisted the poor boy up, he tried to kill her and Newt, he destroyed Percival's reputation and used his face to commit all sorts of crimes. “I don't care if it's for the greater good. He's done wrong and he deserves to be punished for that.”

For a moment, Percival was silent. Again, when he spoke, it was not what she expected. “But is that not what we say to ourselves, Tina?” he asked, softly. “Do we not embark on these jobs, these cases, and say to ourselves it is for the greater good? How are we to know what stands between us and Grindelwald? Are we truly that different?”

She swallowed the lump in her throat that sprang, unbidden, as she thought about all that had occurred already. Death and tragedy from her own two hands. “Are we?”

He stroked her hair. “After all these years, I still don't know,” he admitted, “But we can protect the vulnerable, rescue the innocent. The real jury is our inner selves. We have to find what is good within us and hold it close. Those thoughts also keep me up at night, and they were what woke me this morning. I have had to convince myself that I am worthy to go to bed, and worthy to wake. You will too, one of these days, after the job gets to be too much. Hold tight to what is good and hope it sees you through.”

She hid her face against him. What was good about her? She was still hiding things from him, things which would come to light as soon as Picquery deemed him healthy enough to hear. She wanted to tell him, but that would be a breach of her responsibility to the President, and she would be unable to explain it to Picquery without admitting to what she had started with Percival. She could only hope he would respect her commitment to doing her job, juggling it as she was with her new commitment to him.

“You know more about Grindelwald than most of the ICW combined,” she remarked, lightly, hoping to change the subject.

Percival laughed, and even that sound, light-hearted as it was, made her feel better. “Picquery thinks I should focus my energies into becoming the leading expert on him,” he said. “Especially since most of his childhood friends are being remarkably close-lipped.”

“Not everyone's childhood friends are as outgoing as yours,” Tina remarked.

“What would your childhood friends say about you?”

“Boring?” Tina suggested. “Hm, no, that's not right, I broke too many rules. I had to show off in front of Queenie.”

“You're orphans, right?” he asked. It wasn't said the same way most people did, with that oozing attempt at sympathy; when Percival mentioned it, it was more like a topic of conversation, as clear and unladen as asking whether she preferred white wine or red.

“Yes.”

“That must have been quite a lot of responsibility,” he said, gently stroking her cheek.

Tina shook her head. “She took care of me as much as I took care of her. My first year at Ilvermorny was horrible, like I was walking around missing a leg. My heart ached. Every night before then I would sing to her and I worried how she would be able to get through the night without a lullaby – and then I got to Ilvermorny and realized I needed to sing to her as much as she needed to hear me.”

“I couldn't wait to get to Ilvermorny and away from my siblings,” Percival said, brushing hair from her forehead. “To say nothing of my parents.”

“You're lucky,” she reminded him, softly. He bowed his head forward in acknowledgement.

“What would you sing to Queenie?” he asked, tracking back.

Tina shrugged, as best as she could curled up as she was. “A few different songs. Her favourite was this lullaby our mother used to sing.”

“What was it about?”

Tina shook her head. “I don't know.”

They lapsed into silence, and Tina closed her eyes. Percival's fingers tracked gently through her hair. She felt that familiar ache in her heart, the one that was there when she had been separated from Queenie for the first time, but she knew this was related to him. Could she miss a man while she laid there breathing in his scent? Maybe that was just love.

She shifted, slightly, so she could prop her shoulders in the right angle to take in a breath without difficulty. Her voice came out tremulously, but the melody was so familiar and beloved she felt it grow stronger with each word.

 

“ _Shteyt a bokher, un er trakht_

_Trakht un trakht a gantse nakht_

_Vemen tzu nemen un nit farshemen_

_Vemen tzu nemen un nit farshemen_

 

“ _Tumbala, Tumbala, Tumbalalaika_

_Tumbala, Tumbala, Tumbalalaika_

_Tumbalalaika, shpil balalaika_

_Shpil balalaika, freylekh zol zayn.”_

 

The bugs chirping out in the darkness, the hooting of the owls, seemed to come alive around them. Tina opened her eyes and Percival was staring pensively out into the distance, his hand having gone still but remaining coiled in her hair.

“Percival?” she whispered.

“Would you sing that again for me, Tina?” he asked, not looking at her.

She reached up to touch his wrist. “Alright.”

 

She sang it for him twice more, before they laid there in silence, listening to the combined noise of the world around them and each others' breaths. The sky was beginning to lighten in the east when Tina suggested they go to bed, though the trees remained dark and misty. Percival took her hand to help her out of the swing, then in a matter-of-fact way wrapped his arms around her, lifted her so her feet dangled several inches off the floor, and carried her back into the bedroom.

She put her arms around him and kissed his cheekbone and temple, and then the spot between his eyebrows and the bridge of his nose and his eyelashes and then his mouth. And then he was tumbling her down onto the bed and pushing aside her robe and kissing a trail down between her breasts.

His voice was both comforting and enthralling to her, warm and rumbling, so rarely raised above civilized levels. And her name on his lips, too, was familiar, when she tread her way back through her memories.

“Tina,” he would say, as an afterthought, after considering the investigation before him for several long, quiet minutes. “Tina,” he would reprimand, when she stepped out of line. “Tina,” he – or rather, Grindelwald wearing his face – had sighed, when she had shown him a suitcase full of pastries instead of magical creatures. “Tina,” he once muttered, not so long ago, waking her up in the Night cab.

But now he breathed “Tina,” huskily, against her belly, and then the inside of her thigh, and she thought she was going to turn inside out.

Her name. Not Mariana, or Ana, or even Goldstein. _Tina_. His lips and tongue, forming the syllables. His lips and tongue… _oh_. His lips. His _tongue_. “Percival,” she gasped. “Oh, oh, _fuck_ …”

Looking down, seeing his face buried between her thighs, would have been unreal were it not for the sensations assaulting her, the shudders wracking her body. His hands were clutched into the folds of her robe, bunching them beneath her hips. She didn’t feel ashamed, or coy; she felt wild and free and _his tongue_ , sweet Merlin, his tongue, sliding through her wet folds, tasting her, consuming her. His lips mouthing around her clit and sending shocks of pleasure through her, so strong she started to keen, her hands fisting into his hair, nails dragging over the back of his neck.

Before that night, never in her life had she come in the company of anyone else; no one but herself had ever been able to pleasure her just so. But oh, it felt so easy and natural – and thrilling underneath Percival’s seemingly effortless ministrations, as he licked and sucked her to her orgasm. She cried out and grabbed at his shoulders, pushing her heels against his back, lifting her hips off the bed as she came for the second time for him.

She felt boneless, mindless. She was so happy but still, in the corner of her mind, she was overcome, and so she supposed it wasn’t surprising that she felt a tear or tear leaking from her eyes. She pulled Percival towards her, so she could push her face against his chest, breathe in the scent of him.

“Are you mine, Tina?” he murmured into her hair, sounding oddly fragile.

She nodded against his chest, her fingers tracking their way up along his back. “And you're mine.”

 

.

 

It was morning. He had showered and was relieved to finally be able to properly shave himself again, scraping the blade up over his chin and neck without wincing at any pain in his arm. After rubbing lotion into his face and combing back his hair, he paused to consider his shirtless reflection in the mirror.

The strange combination of adrenaline and sleep had left shadows under his eyes. The fresh pink scar on his shoulder stood out from the rest of his complexion, but at least his skin was no longer a smear of ugly, bruised tones. Whatever Tina had done, she had managed to draw out a good deal of what had been ailing him.

He was a vain man insofar as he needed to be groomed and well turned out to present the best impression he could of competence and professionalism. Beyond that, though, he had little care over how good-looking he might be because it was rarely of any use to him – the way a man conducted himself could be just as seductive as how he appeared. It was just as well – he had a smattering of scars of various ages and sizes all over his body, which certainly could not be deemed attractive in respectable company.

Some were magic-inflicted, others from physical scrapes. When he had been younger and more prone to emotional outbursts, he'd found that a way to control his temper was to let it out in bare-knuckle boxing. With No-Majs, of course, tucked away in back alley rings or on the outskirts of small towns, since he couldn't afford to besmirch his reputation. It was a strict violation of Rappaport, but Percival had been younger then and less concerned about his safety. No one ever found out, and after a few years he hadn't felt the need to partake in the fighting anymore.

Seraphina's reminder to him, though, echoed in his thoughts. _You're running out of lives_. Weren't they all, though? Tina was right, Violetta was right, everyone was right. It was an unwise decision to embark on a relationship with one of his Aurors, he had known that when he had first held her through her nightmares, when he had told her about his first kill, when he had taken her to Gloria and Antoine's home and hadn't bothered to tell them to keep their mouths shut because it was alright, it was Tina, and she was allowed to hear everything. Unwise and yet he had gone through with it anyway, knowing that to fight a feeling that deep was a losing battle, and knowing too that Tina did not deserve the disrespect that was a man going back on his word or his actions. He'd made a promise to her, when he had kissed her.

Placing a hand on either side of the sink, he leaned forward, staring at his reflection. A grim gentleman with the face of a dandy and the body of a boxer glared back at him. “Congratulations, Mr Graves,” he said, hearing in his voice equal measures of victory, uncertainty, and adulation. “You're a fool, and you're in love.”

Tina rapped on the door. “The President will be here soon,” she said, sounding muffled through the door.

“Alright,” he called out. “Thank you.” He listened to her feet padding away, towards the kitchen, presumably. She was likely making a breakfast attempt while he had been showering; an easy enough guess judging from the bangs of pots and pans, and also some colourful swearing that followed a particularly loud crash.

He looked back at his reflection. “Treat her well, or there'll be Hell to pay,” he warned himself, before leaving to get changed. He may be a fool, but he was done with allowing himself to make mistakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More backstory! Also more Grindelwald talk. And going down, naturally.
> 
> I searched around for a lullaby for Tina to sing, and settled on "Tumbalalaika", which is a Jewish folk song that seems to have originated sometime in the 1800s. [Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wqs7sGPV2TU) is a really beautiful rendition of it (be warned, the graphic on the video involves nudity, so don't open this at work!). The lyrics I pulled straight from Wikipedia, I don't know any Yiddish, Russian, or other languages like that, so if there are any mistakes please forgive me. The title of this chapter is from a translation of the lyrics, 'Girl, girl, I want to ask of you/What can grow, grow without rain?' which I felt was very fitting for our two heroes.
> 
> Also also also I can't believe I forgot to add this on here, but!!!! you guys are the best!!!! readers ever!!!! [Look at this beautiful photoset!!!](http://just-things-i-like-mostly.tumblr.com/post/158279206529/gratuitous-goldgraves-aesthetic-thing-incoming) (and look at me, actually using html instead of just lazily copy-pasting links for once)


	16. he eats what you burn

Tina's scrambled eggs were awful and rubbery, even with the addition of salt and pepper. Percival ate them gamely, without complaint. So she couldn't cook an egg; so what. He could cook enough eggs for the both of them.

Violetta swept in through the back door, done whatever she had been doing out by the dock. She had been the one to stop by and forewarn Tina of Seraphina's impending arrival, apparently. “Let's have a look at you,” she said to him.

Percival dropped his fork and obligingly unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it aside to show Violetta his shoulder. The wizened old woman leaned in close, hand playing over the puckered skin, clicking her tongue once and nodding her head in approval. “That ought to fade soon, no problem,” she said. “You'll be good as new within a day, young Mr Graves.”

Tina handed her a plate of breakfast, and jumped as Violetta exclaimed, “Phew! These eggs are terrible!” after taking a bite.

“Are they really?” Tina asked, eyes straying to Percival, who simply raised his eyebrows and swallowed the mouthful he was currently chewing. She flushed, pleased.

“If he eats what you burn, he's a keeper,” Violetta said aloud, apparently to no one in particular.

Suddenly the house shivered, as if from a far-off earthquake.

“Here she comes,” Violetta said, nibbling away at some bacon. “She's allowed to Apparate through the wards. That's the great part about being President.”

Sure enough, Seraphina could be seen through the windows, walking up the thin, needling path that led to the front porch. She was back in trousers and jacket, suited up as usual. She looked for all the world like someone making a quick stop for tea with a colleague on her way to a meeting – which, in all likelihood, was exactly what she was pretending to be doing.

“Good,” she said, without preamble, though she did pause to give Tina a grateful look when the other woman rushed up with a cup of coffee. “I see you're all in one piece. Everything in working order, Graves?”

Percival saluted with his fork. “I am ready to get blasted apart yet again.”

She scowled. “Don't be cavalier,” she said. “Sit, Goldstein, no need to hover. Violetta, so good to see you,” she swooped in to kiss the old woman as one might kiss a volatile grandmother. “Thank you for hiding my people for me.”

“Oh, they're entertaining as Hell. Need anything from me, gal?”

“In a moment. I know you've no interest in politics, but regardless, perhaps you could...?”

“I'll be in the work room,” Violetta said, breezing off towards the door she and Tina had disappeared into the other day. “Don't eat the eggs, Sera.”

Seraphina patted the scarf that kept her hair securely in place. Percival knew for a fact she favoured headwraps because she hated wasting time on her hair. “Now, updates. Damiana Rawley popped up on the radar yesterday evening; she was found on Flight Street making a list of damage done to The Dame, cool as a cucumber. She has been politely questioned and allowed to go her own way. Graves, you might be pleased to hear she swore up and down you did not kidnap her nor partake in the blaze at her business, but your arrest warrant still stands for resisting and attacking Aurors in pursuit of the law. A secondary warrant has gone up for a woman known as Mariana Moon, but they have been unable to locate a photograph of her. Just bacon and toast, thank you, Goldstein.”

Tina looked severely put out.

“I've managed to play Rawley off as not being useful to the investigation so far, but I've no idea how long Vidal will obey me before digging up enough evidence to corner her properly,” Seraphina continued. “He is currently in charge of the case.”

“Higgles in New Orleans outranks him, though, so he has jurisdictional rights,” Tina said, puzzled.

“Have you ever met Chief Higgles, Goldstein?”

Tina paused. “I've heard... stories,” she admitted.

“I assure you they are likely all true. Vidal was able to wrest control once it was revealed Higgles was foolish enough to allow Director Graves to leave Mope's party, and I allowed it.”

“I'd say that was unfair, since he's being played,” Percival said. “But I dislike him so much I can't really care.”

Seraphina gave him a sharp look, clearly telling him to keep his mouth shut on interoffice rivalries for the time being. “Now, when she is not at The Dame, Rawley has been ordered to remain in the bayou for the foreseeable future in case the Aurors need to reach out to her again, so you two will find her there. And you will wring out as much information from that ungodly woman as you can, is that clear?”

“And how do you expect-”

“A presidential seal,” Seraphina interrupted him; he felt a flicker of surprise at the words. “I have brought one, and it is for you, Percival. I don't have to tell you how carefully you must handle it.”

“You don't.”

Tina was looking back and forth between the two of them, her eyes wide with surprise. “Then I'm...?”

“No longer Mariana Moon, unless the occasion calls for it. I will leave that to yours and Graves' discretion, though I have a feeling Rawley will receive you better if you can distance yourself from what happened to Kate. As of right now I am officiating the both of you as presidential emissaries, though you only so far as you are in the presence of Graves. That way if you are both arrested it will be illegal to detain you, and you may use the weight of the presidential office in the course of your investigation.”

“What's been happening?” Percival asked, leaning forward slightly. Seraphina met his gaze steadily, as she always did. “You want us to get to the bottom of this, and fast.”

“We have reason to believe things are about to get very messy for all of us,” she said, shortly. “Stephan Sully gave himself in to authorities last night, apparently to protect himself; from him we have gleaned that there is more than one faction of Grindelwald supporters. Most of them are quite docile; Grindelwald, after all, is still mostly a figment of a shadow in Europe, not a flesh-and-blood figure, so most of his support in America is purely an intellectual pursuit. This new strain of faction, however, is not docile, and likely has direct ties to Grindelwald himself.”

“Have you found anything else out?” Tina asked, eagerly.

“I have followed up on Percival's reports of a possible leak in MACUSA, which we are taking very seriously,” she said. Tina sent him a look, and he remembered they hadn't debriefed; she had no idea he'd been attacked by another Auror. “Unfortunately, most of our resources are currently pointing at the Director as the leak. Goldstein, you look confused.”

“I didn't know,” she said.

Seraphina looked between the both of them. “Hm. Well, suffice it to say, Percival tangled with someone completely capable of taking down his shielding spell, and as all of us know, you have to pass some rather stringent security measure before you learn how to put that shield up, let alone demolish it.”

“Like becoming an Auror,” Tina said, nodding. “There's a chance of learning it if you're not in the career, but unlikely.”

“That, and another thing tells us that a rogue Auror was involved: Percival sent out a distress signal, meaning it went to the nearest comrade in the vicinity – who ignored it, or held it until it was most opportune to summon more Aurors to frame him.”

Tina was silent, considering the tabletop. Seraphina sent Percival a questioning look; he just shrugged. “What are you thinking, Goldstein?” she said.

“I've been thinking about how well Grindelwald pretended to be Director Graves,” she said, after a moment. “If there were Aurors on the inside, they could have supplemented a lot of Grindelwald's information with their own memories. A few hours inside of a Pensieve and he'd know exactly how the Director acted.”

“That was my thought as well,” Seraphina said. “So far I've internally flagged the Aurors who were first on the scene to arrest you, Percival. I assume you recognized everyone?”

“I did,” he said, calmly. All of them men and women he trusted; that was the terrible thing about it.

Seraphina frowned, and nodded. “I want you to work quickly; discretion is key, but results are most important now. We may not have time for traditional spycraft, here, and I'm giving you the option to work more aggressively.”

“How do you know we don't have time?”

“I don't,” Seraphina said.

“Then what-” he began.

“I can just _feel_ it, Percival,” Seraphina said, setting her coffee cup down with a sharp noise that made Tina flinch. “Listen to me or not, but you will obey me. Is that clear?”

 _(_ _Mi_ _d-August, 1914. Gloria's house was warm and oddly silent, Antoine's absence strongly felt._ _Percival tried to ignore it._ _“_ _They say it's going to be a short war,”_ _he_ _remarked, eyes scanning the newspaper._

_Seraphina turned away from the window. The sunlight made her skin glow. “It won't be,” she said, softly. Her hand was pressed to her chest, above her heart.)_

Percival tensed as they stared each other down, aware of Tina in the background, wary. She had never been in a room with them during an argument; very few people had. “I am listening to you,” he said, quietly. “I'm always listening.”

Just like that, Seraphina calmed. Her eyes darted to Tina and her mouth turned down in an apologetic grimace. “Goldstein,” she said, “Director Graves and I have some other things to discuss.”

Tina gave Seraphina a nervous, closed look – but, Percival noticed, there was nothing of surprise in her gaze. “I'll go see if Violetta needs help with anything,” she said, softly, standing up and edging around the table. She walked like she was on eggshells.

Once the work room door was securely closed, Seraphina pulled her gaze away from where Tina had been and back to Percival. “Now, Perce,” she said. “I have some very unpleasant things to tell you. Try not to shout.”

 

.

 

“You're tenser than a bear trap,” Violetta remarked.

It had taken Tina some time to find the old woman in the crowded room. She was standing at a table, apparently working on Tina's protection. She thought she knew what Violetta had been doing at the dock; there was a wet bundle of wire netting on the table, filled with the skeletal remains of a creature. Perhaps she used the swamp to help the flesh decompose faster? It would make sense. How she got it into the workroom without either she or Percival noticing was another mystery entirely.

“The President is going to tell Percival how I lied to him for the past several days,” she said. “And that I might have a voodoo curse put on me at any moment.”

“You may actually already have one on you,” Violetta said, cheerfully. “But this cabin is heavily warded and will keep you safe for the time being. So we have to make sure you've got the right armour before you leave.”

“Oh.” Tina found a stool and sat on it, her heart still beating quite fast. Violetta raised her silver eyebrows at her. She was still wearing the same hat from yesterday.

“Would you like to know how it works?”

Wanting to keep her mind off of what was currently going on, Tina nodded.

Violetta waved her hand at the table before her, then the shelves backed against the wall, then the entire room. “Look at all the types of things you see in here,” she said. “Witches have long worked with potions, but there are other manifestations of spellwork that aren't quite so popular these days, unless you've chosen a career path in potions-making and feel like branching out. Dusting powders, oils, perfumes. I'll wager many of those items made it into the dollbaby bearing your resemblance. Fortunately, the old magic works a little differently from what we know, finds ways around what's normally done.”

“How do you mean?”

“These days if we find a protection spell around someone we want to harm and who intends to harm us, we do our best to break that spell, yes? But that's just one way of going about it. Instead, we can put protection around ourselves, so that anyone who tries to do us harm will have it reflected right back at them. And because the dark magic comes from them, they cannot protect themselves against it, you see? You must become a mirror, and you will turn their own weapons against them.”

“So how do we do that?”

“I'm mixing up a few types of oils, will combine them with some powders and other ingredients, and do it all up in a nice little satchel for you. Keep it on your person and it will protect you, one hopes.”

“We can't be certain?”

“We don't know what that doll will be capable of,” Violetta said, shrugging. “Or how it will be used, if it even _can_ be used. I can protect you from harm caused by harming the doll, but for anything more insidious, you'll just have to be ready to be surprised.”

Tina sighed.

A rough shout, echoing through the walls, made her flinch. There was also a crash.

“Well, there he goes,” Violetta said, dryly. “Hm, cheer up, girl, let's find you some chocolate, I'm sure I've got loads of it somewhere in here.”

 

Violetta had unearthed a box of chocolates filled with strawberry-flavoured cream. They looked fresh, despite having been discovered underneath an incredibly dusty tome, and so Tina was picking her way through while Violetta mixed oils when they heard the door open and shut.

Tina tensed, but it was Seraphina wending her way through the room, not Percival. “What is that?” she asked wearily, looking at the box Tina was holding.

“Chocolates,” she said.

Seraphina ate a chocolate without invitation, not that she needed to be invited. “Hm,” she said. “I prefer caramels.”

“And how is young Mr Graves?” Violetta asked with a somewhat cruel smirk.

“Very displeased,” Seraphina said. “He broke a mug, though to his credit, not on purpose. I told him you were working under my orders, Tina. If he attempts any disciplinary action with you, then report to me immediately, though I doubt it. He's not the type to hold a grudge when his people are just doing their job.”

Tina wasn't quite so sure about that.

Violetta cackled but, to Tina's relief, didn't say anything.

The President placed a comforting hand on Tina's shoulder, surprising her. “He'll get over it, Goldstein,” she said. “He'll see the logic in what you did, I promise you.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” Tina said, trying to swallow a bite of chocolate past the lump in her throat. The President looked like she was about to say something more, but then a moment later Tina was sure she had imagined it.

“Violetta,” Seraphina said, turning to her. “How safe is Goldstein, now?”

“She's fine within the wards, but once she steps out there it's anyone's guess. I'm going to protect her as best I can, but the only way to be certain of her safety is to get that doll back.”

Serahina sighed. “Of course. And one more thing: do you think you could escort Graves and Goldstein to the Rawley House? She won't be home until this evening, from what I can tell she's spending her daylight hours salvaging her shop.”

“I'd be glad to. It's a fun little trip.”

“Good.” The President closed her eyes and for a moment Tina saw how tired she looked. “I need to go now, but please accept my sincerest thanks for your help, Violetta.”

“Not to worry, girl,” Violetta said. “Take some more chocolate for the road, and be on your way. There's a country to run.”

 

.

 

Percival had tried not to get angry; the more emotional he became, the more Seraphina would suspect it was more than a blow to his professional pride upsetting him. So he told himself to be calm. _Seraphina_ was calm, as she spoke, but her voice was so matter-of-fact it only succeeded in chipping away at his stony exterior.

The real issue, of course, was that part of his anger had nothing to do with the fact there was a voodoo doll shaped like him, but entirely about how there was one connected to Tina and it was _out there_ and Seraphina seemed to think that was completely fine.

“It only made sense,” she said. “As the Director your safety was paramount, and I made this clear to Goldstein before sending her out with you-”

“You told her to put herself in danger.”

“I told her to keep you safe,” she said, sharply.

“I don't need protection!”

“You needed to be monitored!” Seraphina snapped. “And, yes, protected if the situation called for it, which it did.”

“She should have informed me.”

“I approve of every action Goldstein took, and that's final,” she growled.

It had erupted from there; fighting back his anger was a losing battle. It was a visceral reaction, especially facing down Seraphina. Days after such incidents they always talked gratefully of it, saying it helped to clear the air between them; but obviously when it was occurring it was more like a boxing bout.

Still, she would not back down and, really, there was nothing for her to back down from besides admit to any wrongdoing, which would absolutely not happen. And so Percival had stormed off, figuring he ought to leave before he broke anything else (the mug toppled off the table when he beat it with his fist, but that had been the only casualty).

He was standing out at the dock when he felt the vibration of the wards, letting him know that Seraphina had left. She had better things to do than soothe the ego of her Law Enforcement Director. These were all things he understood distantly, in the back of his mind, but he could not get a good enough grasp of them to feel at ease about it. He bent to pick up a pebble lodged between the boards of the dock, and chucked it as far downstream as he could.

The back door opened. He didn't have to look to know it was Tina, walking slowly down the dock towards him. She stopped just short of the dock itself, he figured, since there was no sound of her steps on the wooden slats.

She cleared her throat. “Violetta made this for me to keep, in a pocket or my shoe,” she said, uncertainly. “She says it will protect me from harm, but I still might be open to other things. Emotional tampering, sickness, something like that. So she's going to make one for you, too, just in case... in case I attack or do something that affects you. She just needs some of your blood and-”

“Tina,” he snapped, whirling about on his heel. “When were you going to tell me?”

Tina flushed. She clutched at the tiny bundle in her hands; Violetta's handiwork. “When the President told me I could,” she said. “But then she said she would do it, when you were better.”

“How long did you hide it from me?”

“Since Gossamy.”

That stung. That night he had held her and comforted her, and she had been harbouring the secret. “I guess you're improving faster than I thought you were,” he said, smoothly.

It took Tina a moment to figure out what he was saying; when she did, her brows drew angrily together at the accusation of subterfuge. “I was only doing my job,” she said. “It had nothing to do with... how much I trust you. Which I do-”

“Can I trust you?”

“Of course you can,” she said. “You can always trust me. But you can't ask me to choose between your feelings or your safety. I would never ask you to do that with me. Well – I might ask but I would never expect you to.”

“I would ask you to consult with me before putting yourself in danger like this.”

“I did what I had to do to protect you! Why is it so difficult to understand?”

“Don't!” He finally shouted. “Don't _dare_ hide behind your orders, Tina!”

The blood was rushing to her face. “Fine!” she yelled back. “I won't! I'd have done it even if the President _hadn't_ told me to keep you safe. And I would do it again, and again, and _nothing_ you say will make me change my mind. You're just angry because you're not in control, and that's fine, be as angry at the situation as you want, but don't you dare be angry with _me_ for doing what I did.”

She was so forceful he had been tempted to take a step back – the only thing stopping him was the fact he would have fallen into the river. Still, he effectively felt like she had blown much of the wind out of his sails. They stood there on either ends of the dock, gazes locked, chests heaving.

He was the first to break eye contact, casting his gaze aside, into the water. But he didn't speak. It was Tina who broke the silence. “Don't be angry with me,” she repeated, much quieter this time, her tone almost defeated. “ _Please_ don't be angry with me.”

His gaze snapped over to where she stood, shoulders slumped, head tipped forward so her hair hid her face. She was trying her best to disguise it; at the press of his gaze she even turned away, showing him her back. But he knew Tina; he'd been there when she was just starting at MACUSA, fumbling her way through her on-the-job training. He'd caught her at her low moments and taught her how to piece herself together, to get back to work. And now, because of New Orleans, he knew her better than he ever had.

So he knew he had made her cry and it was the most wretched feeling in the world.

It wasn't that her tears made him feel sorry and prepared to sweep everything under the rug; rather they were an awakening to the reality of the situation. He _wasn't_ mad at her, she was right; he was angry with the helplessness. That same feeling that had caught his heart in a vice as he'd watched his brother struggling to stay afloat in the pond all those years ago had returned in force.

He didn't think twice about closing the distance between them. “Tina,” he said, pulling her to him. She resisted but only for a moment; as soon as he had his arms around her, her face was pushing at his neck, tears wet on his skin. “You're right. I'm not angry with you. I'm sorry.”

“I'm frightened,” she whispered. “I don't know what's going to happen to me. But I was more frightened of what might happen to you. Don't ask me to take it back; I won't.”

He smoothed his hand over her hair, to the back of her neck. “I'm fine, I'm always fine,” he murmured, shifting from one foot to the other in what he hoped was a reassuring, rocking motion. “You're taking such good care of me.”

She did seem to calm at the movement and the embrace, though she did hiccough a few times. “You take care of me, too,” she whispered.

“It doesn't feel that way,” he admitted. “Look at what happened under my watch.”

She worked around in his arms so she could pull her face away and look at him. There was a knowing glint to her gaze, and he remembered how she had so keenly deduced the hidden truth revealed when he told her the story of learning to swim. “I guess that's life as an Auror,” she said, gently, and kissed him. Her lips were salty with tears, but the kiss was sweet and forgiving. “I'm sorry for how you feel. But I understand. We'll keep each other safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I don't know why I always have to write Seraphina eating breakfast. It's just???????? what happens. :)


	17. the devil you know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, now someone might be trying to kill you anyway,” Percival said, pleasantly.  
> “That's very helpful, Percy, thank you.”  
> “You're welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seventeen chapters so far... it's about time for some revelations.

“It has to have been Veronique,” Percival said, not for the first time.

They had been discussing it for hours. Now that everything was out in the open they could combine their knowledge and begin sorting everything out. Of course, the list of suspects who had betrayed Percival definitely needed the most consideration. A security breach in their department was one thing, but when it came from an Auror? It made Tina shiver. The trials to becoming an Auror involved so much vetting, character assessment, and security clearing that when an Auror went bad, they went _really_ bad. Tina's own missteps with the Barebones had been a huge scandal because of it, and that had just been an act of passion and anger, never mind treason.

Next to that, though, whoever had taken the voodoo doll from Kate was of high interest; while the actual person who had attacked Kate might have been the rogue Auror, the information leak most likely came from someone they had already come across while undercover. There weren't very many suspects and Tina had to admit the one who fit most was Veronique, but it just didn't feel _right_. “I've been thinking about it, and it doesn't seem like something she would do,” she said. “That's not her way. She seemed so against... misuse.”

“She could have been playing you, Tina.”

“She could have been,” she agreed. “But something in my gut tells me she isn't responsible. Not on purpose. She might have let something slip accidentally.”

“Does she strike you as that careless?”

“Maybe around someone she trusts. Someone else within their personal circle.” Percival still looked doubtful, try as she might to convince him otherwise. “I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm saying... it feels... off.”

He shook his head. “We'll come back to it later,” he said. “Let's go over the Aurors again.”

They did their best to shorten the list of suspects. Unfortunately, the Bingley spells were taught to most Aurors early on in their career, so it wasn't like they could eliminate suspects based on seniority. They could, however, tentatively overlook Aurors like Seline Marcos, who had only transferred to the New York office in October and would not have been able to feed information about Percival to Grindelwald during the summer. But even taking those things into consideration, it was still far too long of a list of names. New Orleans had announced a state of emergency on New Year's Eve, meaning every Auror, Obliviator, and magical law enforcer had been brought in and on the clock.

Tina wished they could have spent their last hours in relative privacy enjoying one another's company, as it were, but there was work to be done. At least there was the promise of continuing their courtship once this was all over and they were back home – another reason to work as thoroughly as they could on the investigation.

By the time the lanterns were lit and the sky was dark, they had made little progress – but they'd bounced enough ideas around and gone over every detail of the case that, hopefully, they'd be able to process any new information with a bit more luck.

Violetta had left them for the day, and when she returned she seemed somewhat disappointed to find the both of them sitting at the kitchen table, fully clothed. “Youth is wasted on the young, as they say,” she said, with a sigh. “Pack the essentials; you never know where the evening will take you, especially in the swamps of Louisiana.”

While Tina was no longer required to play Mariana, at least during the interrogation of Damiana, there was no telling when she would have to put the persona on again, and so she had pulled on a dress, a pair of heeled boots, and packed her beaded purse with her second wand. She didn't bother with makeup, but did strap her knife to her thigh. Percival, of course, just looked like Percival, as slick as ever – though she had to admit she was going to miss seeing him wandering around in his undershirt.

Violetta led them down to the dock, lighting a cigarillo with her wolf's head lighter. It was pale in her dark hands and lit her face with an uncanny glow.

Even though they were following her, Tina glanced around her nervously, wondering if Percival felt the same. After all, the night before, they had stayed firmly within the confines of the house, as Violetta had suggested.

Now on the dock the sound of the water and the trees seemed louder than ever, like a thrumming in Tina's ears. The howls and hoots seemed closer, now. “In you get,” Violetta said, nodding to the boat; Percival moved to climb in first, then reached out his hand to help Tina step lightly in. It rocked gently in the water and she clutched at his forearm for balance. He was tense too, she noticed.

Percival held out his hand for Violetta, and she gamely hopped in. “Have a seat, dears,” she said, untying the boat. “Time to test the protection and see if Tina here collapses and vomits up blood the minute we leave the wards. Oh, and someone cast a little charm around us, or the bugs will eat us alive.”

The boat was propelled not by paddle, though there was one tucked along the inside of the boat, but by a pole Violetta wielded. Tina sat next to Percival, leaning her shoulder against his as much for body warmth as the comfort of contact. It was chilly in the swamp and her sweater was thin, but her shivers had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with her nerves.

“These waterways are full of magic,” Violetta said behind them, nudging their way through the murky water. She did not light a lantern; she just seemed to know exactly where she was going in the moonlight – and there wasn't much of it, for the moon was by then just a sliver in the sky. “Whole communities of witches and wizards can be found, here, springing up in the trees or on the banks. You just have to know which way to go.”

“Do the No-Majs ever make it through?” Tina asked.

“Sometimes,” Violetta said. “And it isn't pretty. Hm. You still look alright. I think we can safely assume you're safe from any hoodoo for now, Tina.”

“Good,” Percival said.

Tina found herself taking Percival's hand. The cries of wildlife, the darkness underneath the branches, the buzzing of the insects, it all echoed hauntingly around them. She was a witch, highly trained, and in the company of two very powerful magic users, one of them a local. But why was she so spooked?

“Used to have a neighbour,” Violetta continued to talk, gaily, unperturbed by the swamp. “Ole Julie. Gosh, what an awful woman! Wiped out whole communities of No-Majs when she died, called down the weather like you wouldn't believe. There's lots of folk that live out here who couldn't care less about our No-Maj brothers and sisters. They put curses in the water that poison the trees. I dig 'em up, when I can. Like No-Majs or don't, you don't mess with the natural world.”

Percival was peering over the edge of the boat, into the dark water. The moonlight shone through gaps in the trees, highlighting every ripple and splash, as well as the green growth that burst out of the water like tiny islands. “I bet your Newt Scamander would dive right in,” Percival said, dryly. Tina couldn't help but stifle a giggle at that, and she felt less nervous.

Violetta began to sing, her crackly voice echoing all around them as they wove their way between the trees, standing out of the water like streetlights gone dim. Some of her songs were slow and mournful but most of them were happy and gay.

“Mammy's little baby loves short'nin', short'nin',

Mammy's little baby loves short'nin' bread!”

A splash down the stream made Percival start.

“Don't worry, it's just my babies,” Violetta said. “They like my singing.”

“How big do alligators get?” Percival asked, warily.

“Bigger than this boat,” she replied, primly. “They won't do anything, but keep your hands out of the water, why don't you.”

“You nervous, city boy?” Tina teased. He scowled at her, but she squeezed his hand and whispered, “Because I am.”

“We're being watched,” he said. “Can you see them?”

Tina turned her head, looking out into the darkness, at the shadows of creepers and vines. “No.”

“You don't want to see them, sweet thing,” Violetta said. “Trust me.”

 

When they arrived at the famous home on the bayou, Tina wasn't sure what to expect, but certainly not what was waiting for them. Damiana's home was half in the water, half on the bank, with a floating dock stretching out into the waterway. A combination of No-Maj architecture and magic kept the building in one cohesive piece, and it was lit up like the Fourth of July. In fact, from a distance it had looked like they were approaching a steamboat full of revellers, not a home.

There was a solitary figure standing on the dock as they drifted up. Tina was not surprised to see it was Dorian Faust, rakish and handsome as usual – less turned out than he had been last time she'd seen him, but still beautiful. He had the looks of a movie star, especially lit from behind by the house.

“Now, this is quite the surprise,” he said. “I'd turn you away, were it not for your captain.”

“Give me a _good_ kiss, Mr Faust,” Violetta said. “These two have business with your mistress, I'm just here for the view.”

Dorian maintained the pleasant smile on his face, but Tina had a feeling he was thinking quite a few things, very quickly. Still, he helped Tina board the dock, shook hands with Percival, and then leaped into the boat.

Tina stared in surprise as Dorian kissed Violetta full on the lips, but the old woman just cackled. “Good lad,” she said. “You been keeping your woman in line?”

“As best I can.”

“Good, good.” Violetta gave Tina a roguish wink. “Well, good luck in your travels, sweetlings.”

“You're not coming in with us?” Tina asked.

The old woman shook her head. “I've got business of my own, honey,” she said, already pushing the boat away from the dock. “But don't worry. To return, you just got to get back the same way you got there yesterday. My door is always open to you. Goodnight, children!”

“Have a good night, Madame Beauvais,” Dorian said, bowing to her from the dock. Her laughter rolled back at him over the water, but she had turned away and didn't look back.

He turned to look at Percival and Tina with a frown. “Well,” he said. “I can safely say you two are not expected. I'd boot you straight off this dock if you hadn't shown up with Beauvais. That is quite the friend to have.”

“We're friendly people,” Percival said. “Now, we're here to speak with Damiana. Care to show us the way?”

“I insist on being present as well.”

Percival just shrugged.

With an annoyed huff Dorian headed up the dock; Percival and Tina fell in step behind him. After the darkness of the swamp the lights from the house were beyond dazzling. Inside the home the rooms were full of warmth, jazz music playing somewhere beyond the walls. It was a strange atmosphere – there was an attempt at frivolity, but something in the air was heavy and serious. Dorian took a set of stairs, leading them farther up and inwards.

“We have visitors,” he called as he ascended.

Tina figured the warning had something to do with the fact Damiana was only wearing a very thin silk robe – presumably thirty seconds ago she had been wearing nothing at all. She was draped over a chaise lounge, the low table beside her covered in a spread of foods – rice, crawfish, biscuits, sausage, olives. She frowned over the top of her glass.

“Percival,” she said, sitting up straighter. “And Miss Moon. _Why_ are you in my house?” The last part she directed to Dorian.

“Madame Beauvais dropped them off,” he said, frankly. Her eyebrows shot up, and then she scowled. Tina knew Violetta was famous, but she was beginning to suspect that in the south – or at least Louisiana – it was a fame bordering on fear and respect, rather than admiration. Percival didn't wait for an invitation, going to seat himself on the couch set perpendicular to the lounge, and motioned to Tina to come and join him.

“Well, unless you're here to tell me where my daughter is, you can get out,” Damiana said. “If Beauvais is going to drop you off here, well, I won't curse you straight through the floorboards. But I'll be damned if I'll tolerate your presence. Because of _you_ ,” and here she jabbed an accusing finger at Tina, “Kate may never wake up.”

“Because of _her_ , Kate is alive,” Percival said, sharply. “You should be thanking her.”

Despite her claims to have them thrown out, Tina watched Dorian casually wander over to the bar in the corner of the room. By the scent of it, he was pouring them all very generous glasses of gin. He seemed unperturbed by Damiana's annoyance, and Tina wondered at his role again; he was in love, but how strong was his devotion? Were they equal partners in their relationship? She carefully noted his movements, pouring from the same bottle, the glasses all coming from the same shelf.

Meanwhile, Damiana was giving Percival a disgusted look. “A good roll in bed really _can_ shake the brains out of even the smartest man,” she said. “She's spreading Grindelwald's poison that's already infected Europe. Either she's fooled you into believing her innocence or she's convinced you to her side, and both possibilities are not ones I feel like entertaining under my roof. You saved my life the other night, Percival, and for that I owe you. But I owe this woman nothing.”

“You do,” Percival said. “And so do I. In fact, you are probably more indebted to her than most people. You must have heard by now that New York was beset by an Obscurus.”

Looking somewhat uncomfortable at the notion, she shrugged. “Supposedly,” she said. “There hasn't been an Obscurial for centuries.”

Tina held her hand out, taking both glasses Dorian was offering – obviously, one for her and one for Percival. She calmly waited and watched until Dorian settled on the lounge with Damiana and took a sip of his own drink; in turn he watched her take a drink from both of the glasses she held, before handing one off to Percival. Dorian gave her a wickedly amused smile, but he didn't appear offended.

“They're more common than we have led ourselves to believe,” Percival said, patting himself down for his cigarette case, which he offered first to Damiana, then to Dorian and Tina in turn. “But I assure you, it was an Obscurus wreaking havoc. They're still rare enough that the existence of one gets the wrong attention from the wrong sort. Gellert Grindelwald was in New York for the specific purpose of tracking it down for his own use.”

The discussion was cool and unaffected, but Tina felt a ball of sadness forming in her chest. Credence, who she had tried so hard to protect – offering him comfort and affection when all he had known was distaste and dissatisfaction from everyone else. Facing down Mary Lou Barebone had been a mistake, allowing it to escalate to the point where she had drawn her wand even moreso, but she couldn't make herself feel bad about it. Yet despite all of her efforts, Credence had suffered, and died, and Tina didn't know if the guilt would ever go away. She hoped the smoke from her cigarette disguised any tell-tale truth in her eyes.

Damiana took a puff from her cigarette after Dorian lit it for her. “So what did she do?” she asked, flicking her fingers in Tina's direction.

“Amongst other things, she relieved Mr Grindelwald of his wand,” Percival said, taking a sip of his drink. He paused, considering the glass. “This gin is very good. Where do you get it?”

“So she's a turncoat?” Dorian asked.

But Damiana was looking at them both with narrowed eyes. Tina, pretending to be cavalier, continued to puff away at her cigarette. “She's one of yours,” she said. “No, more than that. She's an Auror.”

“My name's Tina,” Tina supplied.

Damiana whirled in her seat, glaring accusingly at Dorian. “But you told me he was in love,” she demanded. “You said it was coming off of him in waves.”

Dorian shrugged, unbothered. “Oh, he is,” he said, frankly. “And it's reciprocated. Why? Is interoffice romance against the law? _That's_ boring.”

Tina darted a quick glance at Percival. Was it the lighting, or had the tops of his cheekbones gone a little... pink? She tried not to smile at the dizzying rush of it. _You told me he was in love?_

“I'd be angry if I wasn't impressed. And a little surprised,” Damiana huffed.

“ _Very_ surprised, you mean,” Percival said, coolly. “She had you fooled the minute you saw her, and we all know it.”

Damiana set her drink down. “So what do you want?” she asked. “Since you apparently aren't here to get me to join the fanatics.”

“We're continuing the investigation we embarked on when we arrived in New Orleans,” Percival said. “You are our first stop. After all, you're connected to a variety of crimes we've witnessed. No offence.”

“Hm. Offence taken.”

“Since when is the Director of Magical Law Enforcement so hands on?” Dorian asked. “From what I recall, your job is a little bit bigger than investigations. Don't you, you know, oversee the safety of the entirety of the United States?”

“Yes,” Damiana mused. “The last time I saw you in the field – properly in the field – was what, five years ago? Haven't you come up in the world since then?”

“I'm hands on since I lost all credibility last month,” Percival said, dryly. “In any case, I'm mentoring my up and coming protege.”

“I don't think there's much left to mentor,” Dorian said, wryly, and winked at Tina. “Damiana's not an easy one to fool.” Damiana whacked him gently on the shoulder.

Tina tried not to look too pleased with herself.

“What kind of damage did you catalogue?” Percival asked, curiously. He had, over the course of talking, gone from alert and professional to relaxed and casual, leaning back against the cushions of the couch, cigarette held in one hand, his other arm slung around the back of the sofa, the glass of gin he was holding resting on Tina's shoulder. She knew, though, it was a front, that he was as sharp as ever, hanging on to every word uttered. She supposed he wanted Damiana and Dorian to be relaxed, as well, turning everything into a conversation as opposed to an interrogation. _More flies with honey_ , and all of that.

Damiana sighed. “Nearly everything in the store,” she said. “Even the shrunken head is gone. He'll never heckle customers ever again. But beyond the physical damage, I lost quite a bit of my files. I keep copies, of course, but anything new – new orders and customers – those are all gone. If they wanted to put a dent in my income, they definitely did that, but it's not something I can't recover from.”

“I do believe they wanted more than that,” Percival remarked, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette. “I think they wanted one or both of us dead, at the very least.”

“Do you think they were waiting for us to show up?” she asked.

Percival shrugged and just looked at her, expectantly. Tina feigned disinterest, leaning forward to pick her way through the food on the table. “Try the olives,” Dorian supplied.

Damiana grimaced. “Like I told you that night, someone out there was already very angry with me,” she said. “I received a request about two weeks ago, asking for me to pledge my aid, if not my allegiance. Nothing specific, but it said I had resources they needed and that they would pay. It was delivered by owl and I couldn't track where it came from. They wanted a reply in the form of changing the curtains in my shop windows from purple to black. When the day came, I changed them to scarlet, just to let them know I heard them and had no intention to help. Since then, I've received threats.”

“How do you know it has anything to do with Grindelwald?” Tina asked.

“Because since New York, some locals have got it into their heads that he's here to stay, rather than just blasting his way across the world until something sticks,” Damiana said, firmly. “Not many locals, thankfully, but some, and there are powerful people here. You don't know New Orleans the way that I do, girl. We've always had troubles, but we always knew who we could trust. Now every shadow has become a stranger when it used to be a friend.”

“What pits you against Grindelwald, if you don't mind my asking?” Tina pursued. “Is it ideology? Or his methods?”

The other woman gave her a sharp look, but it was Dorian who answered. “We don't agree with him in many respects,” he said. “Grindelwald follows the rhetoric that people will band together for a common goal, but for him that goal is _otherness_. He believes that peace can only be attained through vilifying, and that is a slope neither of us believe is wise or moral to go down.”

“After all, where will it end?” Damiana continued, exhaling a puff of smoke. She had placed her other hand on Dorian's knee. “Supposedly as long as you are a witch or wizard, Grindelwald loves you. But if you are a No-Maj you are a threat to his society. But more witches and wizards are born to No-Majs every year, so what of them? What of their parents? And what about the rest? The squibs, the sick, the cursed. Where would they stand in Grindelwald's world? Following that, there's no telling how blood purity will take precedence; Europe already has enough troubles with that as it is. I'll wager at the start of every Pureblood family there was a pair of No-Maj parents, and I'd say that publicly if I didn't think it could get me killed.”

“Well, now someone might be trying to kill you anyway,” Percival said, pleasantly.

“That's very helpful, Percy, thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“We don't think murder was the only thing on their minds,” Dorian said. “They were searching for whatever it is they thought Damiana could help them with in the first place. It might have been an accident you two showed up.”

“It wasn't,” Percival said, sipping his drink.

“Oh?”

“Mercy's,” Tina reminded them. “It was set on fire but didn't consume the rest of Flight Street, and there has been nothing to suggest there were any other targets. It was obviously the biggest, most obvious way to get you to go to Flight Street when you were otherwise occupied for New Year's Eve – and it worked. It drew you and Percival to The Dame, and also kept everyone else away from it and concerned with the fire.”

“And what were you doing at Kate's?” Damiana asked.

Tina didn't answer, just exhaled smoke through her nostrils and stubbed out her cigarette. Damiana scowled. “We'll get to that in time,” Percival said. “We just want to go over the threats towards you, first. Especially since it is likely connected to Geneva's disappearance.”

Damiana seemed mollified by that, at least. “Very well,” she said. “I've no idea where she is, but if she's been murdered... well, I'm sure they would have punished me with the evidence of it by now. So now I'm just waiting on a ransom note.”

“And you've received nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Where are the twins?”

“I sent them back to Ilvermorny early. It seemed the safest thing to do. And the household staff are all on paid leave until further notice, just in case. They're all like family, and everyone knows that.”

“How else could they strike at you?”

She shrugged. “Going after Dorian, I suppose,” she said. “But he's fiercer than I am, and we're together for the time being.”

“What about any of your charities? Business partners? Could they take a hit at them?”

Damiana shook her head. “Nothing I'm truly connected to except for Lady Talon's Home; that's where I adopted my children, after all. But my personal connections to thirty of the other children there are all limited, so there's no singular one to attack. Besides, that place is heavily guarded and warded, you can't get in without an invitation or the coordinates, and very few people have knowledge of the latter.”

“Like who?” Tina asked.

“Like this fellow right here,” she said, flicking a fingertip in Percival's direction. “The President, naturally. Myself. A handful of MACUSA witches and wizards who build the wards and maintain the magical frequencies within America. And the staff of the Home, most of whom already live there. So trying to get revenge on me through that means is more trouble than it's worth. Even if you can find the place, there's a list of who is expected when; and once the alarm is tripped, the wards open themselves up to law enforcement, so the place would be swarmed if they snuck in and were seen.”

“So you think you and yours are safe for now?” Percival asked.

“Barring them knocking down the front door right now, yes, more or less. Now it's just trying to figure out what they took, where my daughter is, and how they managed to get into The Dame in the first place without me being alerted.”

Tina felt Percival looking at her, knew what he was thinking: Veronique. “Do you trust all of your workers?” he asked. “I assume some of them have access to the store without you around.”

“Yes, and yes,” she said, shortly. “Why, who do you feel like blaming?”

Tina turned to meet Percival's gaze. She did not want to place the hypothesis, but she knew they had to; and at least Percival was asking her permission, as if she was in charge of it. Feeling defeated, she nodded.

“Veronique,” he said.

Dorian snorted.

“That woman,” Damiana said, “is the most stubborn, stern, unflinching creature I know. Besides myself.”

“So give her a cause and see what she does with it.”

“No,” Damiana said, shaking her head. “Not her style. She doesn't create villains out of nothing. She knows who does her wrong and she gives herself a very specific target. That's all.”

Percival sighed. “Your defence of her is actually 'that's not how she hurts people'?”

“Yes.”

“We have reason to believe, from other evidence, that Veronique leaked important information which was meant to endanger me,” he said. “Now whether she likes me or not is moot, because that information is what ended up hospitalizing your girl Kate. From my observations, she and Veronique were not enemies. Tina thinks she might have did it by mistake, or was coerced.”

“Coerced, possibly, she doesn't make mistakes,” Damiana said, grudgingly. “But if she was, I feel like I would have noticed a difference in her attitude. Damn it! Maybe if I'd played nice, I'd know now who they are. Better yet, I'd know what they wanted.”

“You should have come to MACUSA. Or to myself.”

She scoffed at that. “And what if our mysterious villain or loyal shopgirl was looking for something I supply illegally?” she asked. “Not that I'll admit to it, but come now, Percival, you know me better than that. I'm not going to let a bunch of law enforcers free reign of my affairs on a suspicion.”

“For the right information, we'd have granted immunity.”

“It's too late for that, now.”

“Not quite,” Percival leaned forward. “What are your theories?”

She frowned. Tina and Percival traded glances.

Percival reached into his vest, drawing out the ring Seraphina had given him earlier. The seal of her office glinted in the bright lights of the house. “Very well. So you know, we are here by order of the President. If it is discovered throughout our line of questioning that you have lied to us at any point, punitive measure will be taken against you. That is to say, you will _definitely_ be going to jail this time if that's the case.”

Damiana gaped at him. “You're telling me this _now_?” she exclaimed, outraged.

“Well, I was hoping we could be nice and civil about it, first, but then you became difficult.”

She huffed.

“When Grindelwald was in New York, he searched high and low for a weapon he could use,” Tina said. “If he still has supporters here – aggressive ones – and they don't seem bent on terrorizing so much as trying to gather resources, we think it stands to reason he's still searching for something to that effect.”

“So what have you got that he might want?” Percival asked, raising an eyebrow. “I promise you, I probably already know about seventy-five percent of the laws you break. We won't pursue you with the law if you admit to flouting it, but if I feel like you're hiding something from me that _will_ give me grounds to search _all_ of your holdings. And _that_ will land you in prison.”

“You're an asshole, Percival Graves,” she grumbled. “Alright. Just promise not to throw my pretty self in jail. Dorian, get the books.”

They fell into discussion. If it was a tool or a weapon, it had to be something distinctly in Damiana's possession; something rare enough to warrant targeting her business as opposed to another witch or wizard trading in illegal goods. It either had to be held on the grounds of The Dame, or information as to where it was stored had been hidden in the files. In reality it was a fascinating conversation, but Tina found it hard to focus. She looked down into her glass of gin, saw the reflection of her own eye in the glistening alcohol. The talk of weapons made her feel a bit ill as she thought about all she had done so far, about the knife she still kept (she wondered, perversely, if she was keeping it as a souvenir instead of something to protect herself with), the voodoo doll in her likeness somewhere out there, and the darkness she had faced in Kate and Veronique's blasted apartment.

She thought about Kate, laying on the floor of her apartment, warning Tina that she had to leave, that she was sorry. But what was the first thing she had said, as Tina had knelt down next to her? Her memories turned through her mind. “Geneva, where's Geneva?”

Geneva, coming into the shop the same day Tina had arrived as Mariana to ask questions about the voodoo doll Veronique had built. Geneva who wore elbow-length gloves to hide the scars from the No-Maj caretakers of her past, who had discreetly headed into the back of the shop to change into a new outfit, hiding her late-night activities from her mother, while Mariana and Veronique talked. Geneva, formerly of Lady Talon's Home for Lost Souls.

 _Last month he was looking for a weapon... he may still be searching for a weapon..._ that _weapon._

Oh, no. That was it. _No._

“Did Lady Talon take in any children last month?” she asked, suddenly.

Damiana gave her a _look_. “That's confidential information,” she said.

“Tell me.”

“I don't see how-”

“Answer her,” Percival instructed, sharply.

She frowned at him, but there was no arguing his order, not while he bore the seal. “There was just one,” she said, levelly. “New York City. She's-”

“I know.” Tina turned to Percival and laid a hand on his wrist. He looked at her, concerned, but she saw him grow serious under the weight of her gaze. There could be no misunderstandings, no room for error. She needed him to do this for her, immediately. “You need to go to Lady Talon's, right now,” she said. “It's Modesty Barebone. She grew up in the same place as Credence, raised the same way. She has magic. If one set of conditions can create an Obscurus, Grindelwald might reason-”

“ _He can make another one_ ,” Percival growled. “I'll go now. Rawley, Faust, _stay._ Tina, you're on protection detail for them.”

“What?” Damiana exclaimed indignantly. “If this has to do with the Home, the children might be in danger-”

“Only one, and I'm going to secure her right now. I'll make sure to trip the alarm as soon as I Apparate onto the grounds, and MACUSA will be there in minutes.” He turned to Tina and moved to press the presidential seal into her hand, but she refused to take it.

“Keep it,” she said, grimly. “If your arrest warrant has affected your security clearance, you'll need it to get into the grounds. Besides, Modesty will need that protection more than I will. Go.”

Percival stood, but he had only taken two steps away when Tina leaped up, grabbing him by the hand. She whirled on her heel to block his way and face him, ending up close, too close to make eye contact but allowing their lips to brush together. From the viewpoint of Dorian and Damiana, they were just sharing a goodbye kiss.

Instead Tina whispered, “Careful. It was Geneva.”

Percival nodded. Then he Disapparated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LONG I'VE PLANNED TO WRITE MODESTY BAREBONE INTO THIS STORY and I am so happy I finally got to her. Her use as a red herring before being discarded in the movie was one of the big sticking points for me when I first watched it but _aha, that is why I fanfic_! So expect her in the next chapter, and also a brand new OC who looks like Tom Hiddleston, because I love him. I've been writing the next chapter while I worked on this one, so you shouldn't have too long to wait.
> 
> Violetta at the beginning of the chapter does a couple fun things. First she mentions a neighbour named Julie. That's Julie Brown (Or Julie White, or Black, or even Julia; the stories all confuse) a legendary voodoo ghost that haunts Manchac Swamp (guess where Violetta lives!). She liked to sit on her front porch and sing creepy songs and be generally spooky to her neighbours, and claimed that when she died she was going to take everyone else with her. In 1915 on the day of her funeral a hurricane ripped through and destroyed three towns. You can imagine Violetta didn't find her very fun to be around.  
> Second, she sings to the gators, and the lyrics I posted are from 'Shortnin' Bread' which is a lovely old folk song. ([ here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gru39_DG0Cw) is a cheerful version of it).
> 
> So last chapter I realized that every time I write Seraphina she's eating breakfast (seriously, it was her fourth scene before I figured it out). The best part, though, were all of the comments going 'well of course, she probably NEVER GETS TO EAT' so like, well done y'all for actually figuring out that part of her characterization before I, as the fanfic author, did. >.> ssssssssh i know what i'm doing
> 
> Lastly, in the continuing trend of all of my readers being hella awesome, [definitelyoneoftheguys](http://definitelyoneoftheguys.tumblr.com/) on tumblr made a beautiful photoset [here](http://definitelyoneoftheguys.tumblr.com/post/158584152686/they-call-it-the-rising-sun-by-shampain-for). It is all so beautiful. I just. Buh.


	18. lady talon's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where do our souls go?” she asked.  
> He smoothed her wispy blonde hair back from her face. “We don't know for sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This likely won't be your favourite chapter, since half of it is from the point of view of an original character. But it's really important, I promise xoxo

James loved winter if only for what it did to the grounds – or rather, what the children did to the grounds once they were covered in snow. Some of them were quite artistic; strange and marvellous creatures wrought from snow and ice, bare branches dredged up from the edge of the forest, and stolen clothes were frozen mid-frolic all about the lawn. In fact, he thought he recognized one of his old coats on a figure which might have been him, if he had been missing an arm.

There was also the pond which froze over, allowing the children to skate, and the hill for sledding, and really all sorts of wondrous things the kids would do. James was a firm believer that children ought to be active and at play, though he was certainly happy to cultivate their mental pursuits as well. For most of the year the first half of the day tended to be education-oriented more often than not, but he liked giving them a break during winter.

The shrieking of the kids at play reached him even up in his office. He peered a little bit closer out of the window, keenly watching a handful of the children throwing snowballs until he was certain they were being properly supervised by Lyle.

There was a knock on the frame of the open door, and their cook, Theresa, peeked around the corner. “I'm about to put on a pot of coffee,” she said. “Would you like some, James?”

“I would, thank you,” he said, turning away from the window. “No, no, don't bring it up, I'll come down to the kitchen.”

“Your grandmother never did,” she said, fondly, as they fell in step down the corridor. “She was a proper lady.”

“And I am an improper lady, as you well know,” he said, and she laughed. He checked the time. “It's lunchtime soon, anyway; I'll give you a hand.”

He had known this house for much of his life, but never had he thought he would one day be running it. Apparently, his grandmother had other ideas. It had been somewhat of a shock when she had offered up the opportunity, because frankly James was unlike his Gran, in fact unlike most of his family: sweet-tempered, a dreamer, and the first of them to be sorted into Pukwudgie in living memory. Gran and the rest of the family, on the other hand, was stern and unflinching, but, as she'd told James quite frankly, not stupid – and neither was he.

“You've the right love for this place, and for the lives it can change,” she'd said. “Just like me. And your spirit is lively, it will take whatever is thrown at it. That's the sort of person I can leave this home to, and never worry again.”

And thus Lady Talon had retired without a care in the world fifteen years ago, and James had been running the place ever since.

“Half of them will be going back to school soon,” Theresa sighed, as a loud explosion of giggling came from around the corner, followed by two boys darting past (careful to exclaim polite but hurried 'Ms Chrees! Mr James!' as they passed). “Then we'll be back down to just the babies.”

Rounding the corner, they took the old servant's stairs down to the main level, and then further towards the lower levels. Despite the fact that all of the children were back home for the holidays, it wasn't exactly crowded; there were about thirty children in all at Lady Talon's currently, only half of them at schooling age. James felt like a mother to all of them, even to their newest arrival.

He caught sight of her in the kitchen before Theresa did, who let out a little yelp of shock when she realized the room wasn't empty. The girl looked startled and frightened, but James was quick to put a smile on his face to signal that she could be at ease.

“Modesty,” he exclaimed. “We didn't see you there. How are you?”

She shrugged; nonverbal responses to questions were quite normal for her. She was sitting on the floor by the stove, legs crossed; her blonde head had been just visible to him over the top of the prep table. Not unusually, she had a book in her lap; they seemed attached to her hands, these days. Unsurprising, since for most of her life all she had been allowed were bibles and nursery rhymes on sin.

Modesty was a skittish child, much like most of the children when they first ended up at Lady Talon's. She, however, was one of the oldest they'd taken in for a very long time. Her situation had been very abusive, but luckily her magic had coalesced in a passive way; it was frightening to think what might have happened had she repressed herself. Her own brother was proof of the danger that had been present.

But Modesty was unusual, too, in that she seemed to see things very clearly for such a young child, and responded to the world unlike most others. Her magic had awakened gently instead of violently, though she had been surrounded by violence. Her awareness of where she was in life had created a sharp sense of self-preservation – like an animal that found itself on the streets, she had instincts, and she sensed what was safe and what was not. She was a careful and studious creature.

In talking to her James had slowly understood that Modesty had likely shown signs of magic at a young age. At that point, in most cases, wizarding authorities might catch on and remove the No-Maj born child if that was the safest course, or otherwise sequester her and the family. In Modesty's case, though, she had been promptly adopted out, long before she showed up on any wizarding radar, taken in by a religious faction that had attempted to beat the magic out of her. It had been unsuccessful; her magic had instead gone underground. It spread around her like a cloud, innocent and sweet, calm and unwavering in her certainty that she would survive. Invisible, but present. It had likely inspired others to shelter her when they could, increasing her chances of survival by leaps and bounds. All of this and more James had written in her records; he kept studious files on all of the children, forever concerned about their needs and well-being.

“Are you hungry?” Theresa asked, having recovered from her surprise. She found Modesty spooky and said as much, but that didn't mean she disliked the child – quite the contrary, she found her enormously interesting. “We were going to make some soup and sandwiches for lunch, but I can probably be sweet-talked into whipping up a hot chocolate for you. What do you think?”

Modesty gave her a careful smile. “You are very pretty today, Ms Chrees,” she said, using the nickname all the children did ('Theresa' was a mouthful for four-year-olds, and it caught on).

Theresa let out a bark of laughter. “I meant a 'please' and 'thank you', but that works too,” she said. “You've been listening to Mr Lyle carrying on, haven't you?”

She just smiled.

“Are you hiding by the stove because you're cold?” James asked. She nodded, and he took out his wand. “It is a bit chilly in here. Let's put the fire up a bit higher. Where are your shoes?” She shrugged again. “Are you going to make us figure it out?”

“Maybe,” she replied.

When Modesty had been brought to Lady Talon's nearly a month ago, she had been terrified and distraught – and grieving. She had loved her older brother, who had often been her caretaker and protector, and the events surrounding his loss was something she still had trouble talking about. Despite it all, though, now she was smiling and talking, often laughing with some of the other girls, though she preferred to keep to herself and remain silent. She also finally had colour in her cheeks; James had been beside himself when he saw the state she'd been in on arrival, like she'd been underfed her whole life. So had Denise: she'd been so angry that she'd needed a rather large brandy before she could calm down and start on proper nutrition plans.

“What are you reading?” He asked, taking a seat at the bench running along the prep table. Separate mugs of coffee and hot chocolate floated down onto the tabletop. Modesty climbed up beside him and showed him the book. “Ah, this looks like one of Mrs Denise's. What's it about?”

While Theresa went about making up the lunch, Modesty explained the story she was reading. Though he wanted to help with the cooking, Theresa simply waved him off; it was better to focus on Modesty. Most of the children at Lady Talon's didn't get adopted, especially after a certain age. As such, James fostered them like his own children. When they grew up and moved away they often sent letters or visited; James had been in charge long enough now that sometimes when they came by they brought along their spouses and their own children, and he'd attended and given speeches at many weddings.

Whether Modesty was ever adopted or not, James was prepared to be a fixture in her life as he was with all of the other children that came before her.

By the time Modesty had explained the story she had read so far, and then they read a few pages together, it was lunchtime, and Theresa set off the bell that echoed through the sprawling mansion, calling the children to their meal.

“Off you go,” he said, nudging her off the bench. She scampered off to the dining room, and James picked up the empty mugs and set them in the sink.

“She's quite strange,” Theresa mused, wiping her hands on her apron. “It's those eyes. They see the truth of things.”

“I thought the same,” James said. “Remember her first day?”

“I do,” Theresa said, nodding. “She took my hand, not a moment of hesitation. She knew she was safe here.”

“Do you think it's instinct? Or something much more than that?”

“We probably won't know 'til she's older.”

In the dining room, he could tell who had been outside by their pink faces still fresh from the cold. One of those faces belonged to Lyle, who split his responsibilities between managing the grounds, keeping the house in working shape, and supervising the children's outdoor activities. He had once been one of Lady Talon's children himself, and worked at the home (for a pittance, and that only because James insisted on paying him even though Lyle tried to work for free. In reality Lyle had married a very wealthy film star, and they made regular donations to Lady Talon's that were outmatched only by Damiana Rawley's contributions).

“Those kids are ruffians today,” Lyle said, drinking his coffee. “Can't wait until half of them are back at school and we can get a moment's peace.”

Theresa snorted. “You love those ruffians,” she said.

“They were throwing snowballs at me!”

“Then clearly you haven't been disciplining them properly.”

 

The rest of the day went as it usually did for winter holidays, with games and dinner and bath time, as well as holiday homework for the Ilvermorny students. At nine in the evening Theresa went throughout the house, ringing the same silver bell that had been rung ever since Lady Talon's had been established, to call the children to their beds. Some children slept earlier or later than others, but the bell was the signal for everyone to be in their rooms.

Denise poked her head into James' office. “I can't find Modesty or Robert,” she said. “Modesty probably fell asleep in the library again and she's too heavy for me to carry, could you go get her?”

“Of course,” he said, putting his quill down.

Sure enough, he found her fast asleep at one of the window seats, curled up in the chair. A new book was in her hands. He picked it up, sliding a piece of paper between the pages to keep her place, and bent to gather her in his arms.

She woke, startled, but, seeing it was him, soon became pliant again. She wrapped her arms around his neck and cuddled into his shoulder as he began to carry her up the next two floors to her room. A levitating charm would have made it easier, but they had a policy to never use spells on any of the children unless absolutely necessary.

He crossed paths with Denise halfway there, holding a yawning Robert's hand. “Want me to get her dressed?” she asked, meaning Modesty.

“No, no,” he said. “That'll just wake her too much. She can sleep in her frock tonight. She needs the rest.” Denise nodded.

Most of the children slept two to a room, and Modesty was no different. Her bed was on the left side; the right-side bed was occupied by eight-year-old Millie, who was already sound asleep. He leaned forward to set Modesty down into the bed, where she began to sleepily bury herself under the covers. He moved to check on Millie while Modesty settled herself, then went back over.

“Goodnight, dear,” he said.

But Modesty rolled over, looking up at him sleepily. “Mr James,” she murmured, her voice small. “Can you tell me about death, again?”

James sat down on the edge of the bed. “What about it?” he asked, gently.

Theresa would have scolded his ear off for even uttering the D-word around the children, but toJames, he understood her need to ask questions. Her entire adopted family had died, after all, regardless of her feelings for them. “Where do our souls go?” she asked.

He smoothed her wispy blonde hair back from her face. “We don't know for sure.”

“And that's why we're scared of it?”

“Partly,” he said. “It is what follows life. They say the longer you have been alive, the less fearful you are of death, because you already have had many years to know what it's like to be alive and are ready for something new. But everyone is different.”

She watched him, solemnly. “What's it like?”

“You know I don't know that, Modesty.”

“I know.”

She wanted to know his thoughts, like always. He sighed. “I think death is just what follows life,” he said. “And there might be more stages we don't know about. It could be good or bad or both; I think it will be just as surprising and unexpected as life is. I think it's possible Credence is having a much better time now than he was before. I don't believe in judgement, but I believe what we say and do in life helps prepare us for the ordeals of death. Credence took care of you and the lessons he learned from that will keep him from sorrow.”

“I hope so.”

“I hope so, too.”

She fidgeted with the coverlet. “I miss him,” she said. “He was my family. Do you think anyone will ever adopt me?”

“Well,” James said, “whether you are or you aren't, you'll always have the people in this house. Lady Talon's has been around for over a hundred years, and will remain so long as there are people who need it.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What if something ever happens to you?” she asked.

A chill ran its way down his spine. There was nothing venomous or dark about her words, but as Theresa had said, she was a spooky child. Sometimes she spoke things which brought you close to the edge, standing at the precipice between this world and the next, and you found yourself breathing in a lungful of ghostly air.

He took her hand and squeezed it. “Then you will soldier on,” he said, smiling.

Modesty yawned and, just like that, the chill was gone. She burrowed deeper under the covers. “Goodnight, Mr James.”

He tucked the blankets securely around her. “Goodnight, Modesty. If you have nightmares again, don't be afraid to wake one of us.”

 

Since New Year's Eve, James had had trouble sleeping, no matter how many potions Denise tried to brew for him. The Dame burning down, Damiana interrogated, Geneva missing, it was all very upsetting. Not to mention MACUSA attempting to arrest Percival Graves. Normally he respected the actions of MACUSA, especially once Seraphina had come to office, but Percival Graves, a criminal? The scandal with Grindelwald aside, James couldn't believe it. He'd known the man ever since the Calamine affair, and Graves was not so much a stickler – as many confused him to be – as he was simply steadfast. If he was an enemy of the state then James would eat his hat.

As a result of his mind forever churning James spent most of his evenings in the office, rarely finding himself heading to bed until the small hours of the morning. On the bright side, he was able to get quite a lot of work done, as well as operate as watchdog.

It was not unusual for there to be movement in the house during the first couple of hours before midnight, especially on holidays. The older children often had trouble settling down, and were prone to sneaking into each others' rooms to talk and gossip, or make an attempt on ransacking the kitchens. Often they got away with it unless they were too loud, but it was especially difficult for them now that James was going to bed so late.

He knew the house so well by now that when he heard a gentle scraping sound from the floor below him, he knew it was in one of the hallways, and not the bedrooms; quite specifically it was the drag of the bottom of the nursery door against the floor, because they had yet to fix the hinges and straighten the door itself out.

The fact it was the nursery made him put his work away immediately. Unlike most of the rooms the nursery housed the four youngest children, and was technically seen to by Theresa, but she slept through almost anything short of crying these days. It was rare for any of the children to wake at such an hour and move around as opposed to beginning to cry, so he assumed there was some mischief afoot. Most notably, there was a secret passage in the nursery that lead to the kitchens, and while it was a tricky route for a teenager to take and risk waking the young ones, there was a good payoff in avoiding waking most of the staff if they managed to get through.

He stretched some of the stiffness from his neck as he left his office and made his quiet way down to the next floor, not needing light to see his way through the familiar corridors. Sure enough he heard soft footsteps and murmurs. He pulled out his wand, prepared to turn the corner and light up the miscreants, when a whispered phrase made its way to his ear.

“She's not in there.”

He stepped even more quietly than before, his muscles tense, as the whispering continued. “She must be here somewhere. Maybe she's older than we thought.”

“Then let's get to the other bedrooms.”

“But-”

“Remember what I said?”

“Yes.”

“Then shut up.”

A man and a woman. It was hard to know if he could recognize either of the voices, hushed though they were. He heard another door open and his heart began to hammer in his chest. He raised his wand to sound the alarm when one of the intruders appeared around the corner.

His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and that was how he knew it was Geneva Rawley standing there; but it was the faint starlight from one of the windows that revealed the blurry colours of her skin, dark and shadowy around one eye, with faint markings around her throat. She opened her mouth in surprise, before covering it with her hand. James lowered his wand, fractionally.

“Geneva!” the man around the corner hissed. “Where the Hell did you go?” Despite the guttural tone of it, James recognized that voice. A voice that brought to mind the chime of crystal glassware and silver cutlery, the smell of expensive cigars and the taste of butter: Tobias Mope, one of the darlings of the upper class social scene who washed his own dishes by hand more often than he donated to charity.

James didn't have time to wonder at Tobias' presence; the safety of his charges was more important. He moved to sound the alarm, but it turned out he didn't have to.

 

.

 

There were a few ways to trip the wards and set off the alarm. One of them was by accidentally activating any of the defences when Apparating in and moving through the grounds. Someone like Damiana Rawley – or someone who had access to steal the information, like her daughter Geneva – would know how to avoid that. Percival knew how to avoid it, too. A second was to manually 'detonate' the wards, which Percival was only vaguely aware of how to do and was best done by James Talon or any of his staff. A third and more convenient option for him was embarking on a magical attack on the structure of the building itself.

Once the wards were tripped, the occupants of the home had five minutes to restore them in the case of a false alarm. A single second past that, and the other wards would open to allow MACUSA law enforcement in to deal with the situation.

In the dead of night Percival had used a levitation spell to flit from window to window like some kind of vampire, peering through the windows and into hallways to see if there was anything amiss. If there wasn't, he was more than happy to just ring the damn doorbell, but there was the possibility they had figured out Geneva's involvement too late, in which case Percival had no intention in announcing himself to the enemy.

Lady Talon's house was huge, grander even than the home on the Graves Estate, but he was as quick and efficient as possible. He was beginning to think he was being overly cautious and was about to head back to the front of the house when he caught movement in one corridor – and saw, for a moment, the briefly illuminated face of Geneva Rawley. And that, as they say, was that.

Percival threw a blast of magic at the window, shattering it to pieces. Immediately the entire house was full of a loud shrieking, like the wailing of a banshee, and Percival threw himself inside, head ducked to avoid the glass, going into a roll before coming up to his feet, wand at the ready.

That was when he saw, of all people, Tobias Mope. He was charging down the hallway towards him, his face set in grim determination and his mouth open in the midst of shouting out a spell, when James Talon himself hurtled forward, catching Tobias around the middle in a tackle. They disappeared in a crack.

In the space of five seconds it was now just Percival and Geneva standing in the hallway as the house woke around them. Through the alarm they heard shouts and crying, the sound of running feet, yet Percival for the moment did not move, his wand trained on Geneva.

The young girl was staring at him with a horrified, yet oddly resigned, expression. “That's done it,” she said, raising her voice to be heard. “You've just sentence my whole family to death.”

“Don't blame others for your mistakes, Miss Rawley.”

She closed her eyes and he took in the bruises that covered her face and throat and arms. “Go ahead, then, curse me,” she said, and even through the shrieking he detected a note of begging in her voice. “I don't want to be awake for this.”

Wand forgotten, Percival stormed up to her, grabbing her by the shoulders and giving her a good shake. He would never abuse anyone, but he couldn't help but be angry – besides, there was a lot she had to redeem herself for, and he was more than happy to give her a shove in the right direction. “You're a _Rawley_!” he reminded her. “You don't have to let him win!”

“The people he knows-”

“I know better people,” he interrupted, ignoring the prickle of fear in his heart as his mind whipped through the scenario before him. Tobias had clearly seduced Geneva in some way to his side, using her background of abuse by No-Majs as leverage, but the only way to maintain control at this stage was fear... and threats. “He threatened to kill your family?”

She bit her bottom lip. “And to finish off Kate,” she whispered, barely audible above the alarm. “I didn't know that's what would happen to her... I didn't-”

“I just came from your mother's home. I have an Auror there. Go now and warn them and she'll know what to do.”

“I can't-”

“He'll send killers now, no matter what you do!” He gave her a shove. “So go! I know you're tougher than this!”

She stumbled away from him, her face blotchy with bruises and emotion, but her mouth was pressed in a thin line and some clarity had returned to her eyes. What had Tobias done to terrorize a woman brought up under the calculating eye of Damiana Rawley? What else had he managed to accomplish, right beneath Percival's nose, hiding under his disguise as a dandy and a dilettante? Unpleasant questions he would have to consider later. “It's Modesty Barebone they want,” she said, before Disapparating.

Crashes and bangs seemed to vibrate from the ceiling above him as Percival dashed down the hallway, through the corridors swarming with children. Most people assumed James Talon was a weak man, but Percival had known him well ever since he had first come to Lady Talon's to pay for the upkeep of the Calamine children. James took the protection of his charges very seriously, and Percival was willing to bet he had Apparated himself and Tobias into the observatory, the highest room in the mansion and the farthest away from everybody else. That's what Percival would have done.

He stopped, buffeted from side to side by children and teenagers and a few staff, all who completely ignored him seeing as how he wasn't making himself a threat. Where the Hell to go? “Modesty!” he called out.

“Mr Graves.”

Percival whirled around, his heart plummeting. Rita Calamine looked just like her mother, but the only time Percival had ever seen her mother she had been dead, and it was not a pleasant mental image. He opened his mouth to greet her and found, horrifyingly, that he couldn't.

She just looked at him, so calm despite the chaos surrounding them. “Modesty sleeps on the third floor,” she said, before taking the stairs down.

Turning on his heel, Percival ran to the set of stairs leading up, taking them two at a time.

The third floor was silent save for the alarm and the continued bangs and crashes going on in the upper floors. He whispered _lumos_ and shone a light all throughout, into each empty bedroom. At the fifth doorway his light caught, for the moment, the reflection of a pair of eyes peering from around a large wardrobe.

Immediately, he dimmed the light so as not to blind whoever it was. “Modesty, is that you?” he asked. Regardless, whoever it was needed to get downstairs where, he presumed, all the children were going into lockdown.

There was a soft intake of breath. “Yes.”

“Come with me, it's dangerous to stay.”

She squeezed herself tighter against the wardrobe as he stepped into the room. She was a small girl, pale with pale hair, and instead of wearing a nightgown she was clad in a neat, dark frock. Her eyes, though, were large and wary, and she stared at him with an odd familiarity.

“What's your name?” she asked.

“Percival Graves,” he said. “I'm here to protect you.”

“I believe you,” she answered.

He looked at her, puzzled, but another crash jarred him from his thoughts. “Come with me,” he said again, holding out his hand. She stepped towards him and took it.

“I've seen you before,” she said, as they hurried down the hallway. “But it wasn't you. It was someone else. He was a liar.”

Grindelwald, damn him. “He was. Come now, quickly.” They rushed down the stairs. How long had it been since he triggered the alarm? When would MACUSA show up? He had to keep her safe until then. He couldn't take her to where the other children were hastening – unfortunately, her presence might just endanger them.

“Where's Mr James?”

“He's protecting you, too.”

Quite suddenly Modesty stopped, digging her heels in and tugging back; Percival was so surprised that he almost didn't stop in time and nearly pulled her down the stairs. “You should be helping Mr James!” she shouted.

“Modesty, I can't do that.”

“Yes, you can!”

The staircase below them started to shake. Percival grabbed her up in his arms and tore down them right before a chunk of ceiling crashed down.

A figure appeared at the top of the stairs and swooped low, covered in splinters and plaster and chips of stone. The staircase continued to shake, a few steps crumbling away, but whoever it was was able to catch themself with a spell at the last moment and jump down to the landing where Percival stood, Modesty securely hefted in one arm, his free hand holding his wand at the ready.

Thankfully it was James Talon, shaking dust out of his golden curls. “What are you doing!” he demanded, wand pointed at Percival's forehead.

“Helping,” Percival said. Modesty nodded.

“Good, follow me!” James exclaimed, immediately tearing down the hallway, and Percival followed. “He'll get out of those bindings in a minute!”

“Mr James, are you okay?” Modesty was crying out, and Percival understood why. Usually the very picture of genteel breeding, James' clothes were ripped and torn and he was covered in bits of demolished building. He glanced over his shoulder at Modesty, smiling through a bloodied lip.

“Of course,” he said, his tone so calm and idle Percival almost didn't believe it, if it weren't for the fact he was used to the man. For someone with such a bleeding heart, he sure could keep a tight reign on his emotions when need be. “Mr Graves is going to get you out of here.”

“What do you mean 'out of here'?” Percival demanded. “MACUSA will be here any second-”

“And they will lock the place down with the children and Tobias inside of it, and he won't leave if she's still here,” James continued doggedly. There was a tremble in the upper levels as Tobias, presumably, fought his way free. “She needs to be taken away and put into protective custody. I'm sure you have the means to do that.”

They were running across the entry hall to the front door. Except for the sound of destruction in the upper levels and the alarms still going, the house was empty and still. The children had been safely sequestered, Percival hoped.

At the door he set Modesty down, and she immediately went to hug James, who squeezed her tightly.

“Keep her safe,” he said, breathless from running, looking over Modesty's head at Percival. “I can trust you, can't I, Mr Graves?”

“You know you can.”

“Then swear you'll take care of her.”

“I swear it.”

He turned his attention away. “Modesty,” he said holding the little girl's face in his hands. “I won't tell you to behave, but I will tell you to be good. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” she promised.

He let go of her and she stepped away, reaching out to take Percival's hand. “Goodbye, Mr James,” she said, softly, looking back at him.

James gave her a startled look and for a moment Percival saw fear flash in his eyes. Then it was gone and he smiled, gentle as ever, and placed his hand to his heart. “Soldier on, my dear,” he said. “Stick close to Mr Graves. Goodbye.”

The ceiling began to cave in. Startled, James shoved Percival backwards, out of the door. Percival pulled Modesty with him and they both watched James slam the double doors shut, the sound of locks and spells clicking and snapping into place.

Percival knew what awaited them. The grounds were covered in snow, and Modesty wasn't wearing shoes or a coat. He could carry her and run or magic up some shoes, but even as he thought of that the land and sky began to be blotted out by Apparating forces, and as he saw several familiar faces converging on them, he knew there was no time for that.

He grabbed Modesty's hand and Disapparated.

 

Percival knelt at the mouth of the alleyway, patting Modesty's back as she threw up, cursing the getaway he'd been forced to make. Adults Apparating for the first time often got sick; for a child, though, it was complete torture. Though the presidential seal expanded his powers where he could easily Apparate anywhere in the country if he so desired, that was not a trip he was about to put an eight-year-old through.

He had instead taken them to the nearest city with a MACUSA office, Seattle, hoping to mitigate her discomfort as much as he could. “I'm sorry, Modesty,” he kept saying. It was worse because she was crying, probably because on top of being shocked and scared she now felt awful. Taking care of children was not his specialty, especially ones who cried. “I won't make you do that again.”

He handed her his handkerchief so she could wipe her face and mouth. She looked so sad and pale in the dim light of the alleyway, and oh, she was barefoot, still. He tapped his wand against her toes and shoes whisked into being, wrapping themselves around her feet, before he called up a coat for her as well.

“Will Mr James be okay?” she hiccoughed.

“I don't know.”

“Adults never know anything,” she cried.

Well, he had to agree with her there – but he did know what he had to do next. Everything in his being wanted to go to Louisiana, to find Tina and protect her, but he knew in his gut that she was on her own now, and he on his. Modesty was his responsibility. “I'm going to get you somewhere safe,” he promised, taking her hand. “We are going to go back to New York by Floo – that is, the fireplace network.”

“Why?”

“That's where the President will be,” he said. “When we get there, they're going to take me away for a bit and separate us. You'll be safe, but we can't know who to trust just yet. So don't say anything at all unless it is to a woman who introduces herself as Miss Goldstein, or the President herself. Do you know what the President looks like?” She nodded, shakily. “Good.”

“What does Miss Goldstein look like?”

“There are two, but they're both very tall and pretty. Don't worry, they'll tell you their names, so you'll know it's them. So,” he took her by both shoulders and made her look into his eyes, “repeat back to me what I just said.”

“Don't talk to anyone but the President or Miss Goldstein,” she repeated. “We don't know who to trust.”

“Good. Very good, Modesty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was somehow the most difficult to write out of all of them. I scrapped maybe 80% of what I initially wrote, so you're actually seeing the final 20% that made the cut, and I'm still not too happy with it. However, I didn't want to make anyone wait, so here it is. Going from the POV of a non-canon character was interesting, to say the least, but gave me a lot of freedom in exploring Modesty's character. And to foreshadow. Can't get enough o' that foreshadowin'.
> 
> Background on Lady Talon's: It came into being shortly after Rappaport's Law was passed in 1790 to deal with the segregation of magic folk and No-Majs. It's located in Washington state. Owing to the long lives of witches and wizards, James is the third Talon to run the home, but the first male in his family to do so. He would have been running the house since 1911; Percival would have become involved in setting up the Calamine children there in about 1913.
> 
> This chapter marks the beginning of the story's last major arc where everything comes to a head. I'm not saying the ending is going to be soon, but we are officially turning our attentions toward it! Thank you all for hanging in so far. Love love <3 I'm wondering what your theories are? Sometimes I wonder if I give too much away or my writing is way too obtuse, hahahaha (but srsly I mentioned Lady Talon's like a million times you had to know we were going there right???). I'm sorry to say our lovebirds will be striking out on their own for a wee bit, but hopefully their separate adventures will be entertaining.
> 
> For those who might be following me on Tumblr you might have seen I've been going through periods of unemployment and financial misery (also, misery in general) but I found employment last week... twice over. Great news for my debt and back taxes, bad news for my spare time. Updates might slow down quite a bit, I'm so sorry! xoxo


	19. the man and the moon

Tina stood on the Rawleys' dock, waiting. She had her small, beaded purse open, which contained all the files and reports she and Percival had had and created through the whole trip so far. She pulled out the spare wand she had, and placed her own inside, before sealing the bag and casting an Imperturbable Charm on it. Things were getting very tense indeed, and in case of emergency Tina could drop the purse into the swamp. If something were to happen to her, Percival had the skills to retrieve it. It was also better if she used the stolen wand for now, even though it didn't respond to her as well – if anyone apprehended her, it would take them much longer to identify her.

Behind her, Geneva clattered up. She had apparently magicked herself out of her scuffed dress and was wearing a clean pair of trousers, a blouse and boots, but her skin was still mottled with bruises, clear in the light of the lantern swinging from her hand.

When Geneva had first arrived at the house, barging in through the front entrance, Tina had pulled her wand on the girl. Damiana had raged, but Tina had refused to relent until the girl had told her what she wanted to know. And when Damiana had realized that her daughter had been behind the attack on her own shop, well, she shut up quickly and let Tina ask her questions.

“He sent me, I swear it,” Geneva had said, hands raised in a show of harmlessness. Apparently, Tobias had taken away her wand. “He said to come here and warn my family and that he had an Auror here who would know what to do. Please, help us.”

Tina _hadn't_ known what to do, not exactly, but she knew what needed to happen: they had to leave, immediately. If Tobias Mope was going to send killers, then making themselves scarce was the safest alternative as opposed to holing up in the house and trying to defend themselves out in the middle of nowhere. Dorian had gone to get a boat; Damiana had begun to pack and lock down anything essential, for security reasons. Tina had went down to the dock to wait, considering the swamp before them.

According to Damiana, and backed up by what Tina had seen, just getting out into the water would be enough to keep them safe for the time being. Only locals could make their way through the labyrinthine swamp without directions, and the magic that flowed and ebbed would put them on a maze-like course that would leave a trail impossible to follow. There were parts of the swamp that Tina was sure never appeared on any map, magical or non-magical.

“I hope they don't burn down my house,” Damiana muttered as she stomped up. She had gotten rid of the flimsy silk robe and was now dressed similarly to her daughter. Tina noted the way she took Geneva's hand the moment she was within reach. There was no anger, no betrayal in the woman that Tina could see. She was willing to wait it out and ride through the storm; she had faith in her daughter, despite everything. If things weren't so dire, Tina would have been moved.

“Unlikely,” Tina said. “Their job is to take you out. When they see you're not home they'll move on to tracking you elsewhere.”

“Can't we just call MACUSA?” Geneva asked.

“One of the killers probably _is_ MACUSA,” Tina replied, grimly. “That's how Tobias has been able to stay ahead of the game.” And feed information about Percival to Grindelwald.

The boat Dorian was pulling up to them in was much bigger and more luxurious than the little boat Violetta had corralled Tina and Percival into mere hours ago. It was clearly built to cruise around for pleasure, though it was powered by a motor that belched out strange clouds of green-tinged smoke, which Tina recognized as something the Department liked to call 'trail spread'. It was the magical equivalent of obliterating your footprints in the snow or dirt by messing it all about. It left a trace, but made it hard for anyone to figure out what direction you might have gone in, should they attempt to track you.

“In you get, ladies,” Dorian said, motioning them forward.

For the second time that evening Tina found herself on the water. The lights on the boat, however, made it a much less unsettling ride than the first one she had taken with Violetta at the helm, guiding them through the dark. The extra voices, too, helped drown out the uneasy noises of the swamp around them, though the hooting and howling in the distance was still there.

Tina got into the boat first, sitting down near the front but facing back towards the motor. Damiana and Geneva sat across from her, side by side, Geneva huddling close to her mother. Tina did her best not to focus on the state the young woman was in, instead tried to think critically about the situation. Percival would know he could not return to Damiana's home and expect to find them... Tina would need to go find him once the time was right. She told herself not to worry about him. _Suffering twice,_ she heard Newt say in her head.

They had left all the lights in the house on and as they motored away, Tina watched it as it was slowly blotted out in the shadows of the trees. Once it was gone and they were moving along at a slow, even pace, the lanterns attached to the boat overhang swaying, Tina felt it was now time to get back to business.

“I would like to speak with Geneva alone, if I may,” she said.

“Absolutely not,” Damiana answered, immediately. Geneva turned her gaze on her mother, opening her mouth – to protest, Tina guessed, from the look on her face – but it was Dorian who spoke first.

“Let her,” he said, to Damiana. “If she wants.”

She shot him an angry look. “ _What_? You think-”

“She's an adult, Dame. She can make her own decisions, and she is subject to whatever law our friendly Auror here represents.”

“You're not her parent, Dorian, I am.”

“I'm well aware,” he said, quietly. “And while I don't fully understand your reluctance, I can sympathize with it. But can't you tell she wants to, _needs_ to talk about it?”

Something quieted in Damiana's face, as she gazed at Dorian. Tina again wondered at the man, and his relationship with such an imposing woman. What was it about Faust that meant Damiana always took him at his word? When he spoke of Tina and Percival being in love, Damiana had treated it as gospel, never once questioning it.

Damiana turned to her daughter. They were still holding hands and Tina watched as she squeezed Geneva's fingers in her own. “You know it's not your fault, baby,” she said, quietly. “You have nothing to feel guilty over.”

“You don't know anything, mama,” Geneva replied. Her tone wasn't angry or bratty, but sad and resigned. “I want to talk to her. Someone needs to know and maybe she can help fix what I've done.”

“I know what's in your heart,” Damiana said, quietly. Geneva blinked back a few tears.

“Come sit back here with me,” Dorian said, beckoning for Damiana to join him by the motor. Tina herself got to her feet and made her wobbly way to the front, where she and Geneva sat and watched the prow slice its way through the dark waters.

“You can probably guess what happened,” Geneva said, reaching up to rearrange a paper lantern that hung just above their heads. Its sides were painted with runes and it cast a soft, red light, which glinted in her hair.

“Some of it.”

“I'll tell you a bit about it,” Geneva said. She was not looking at Tina, trying to hide the tears she was still brushing away. “When I first met Tobias he treated me in a way I had never been before, by people who knew about my mother. Like I was an individual, not just a shadow. And he was so beautiful, and exciting, and fun. I knew he belonged to Veronique but it was like I couldn't help myself. I know it wasn't a spell, it was all me, and I feel terrible about it. He reeled me in because I'm a stupid girl, and nothing else.”

“How old are you, Geneva?” Tina asked.

“Nineteen.”

“I'm not much older than you,” Tina said. “I can tell you that the only way a woman becomes less stupid about men is to suffer at their hands first. We can be as wary as we like, but we're still liable to be fools.”

Geneva chewed at her lip in thought. “Honestly I thought he was just taking me for a ride, at first,” she confessed. “Like I was... just some fun on the side, because no one in their right mind would leave Veronique for someone like me. Ronny's not from a rich family or anything, but she's one of the beauties of New Orleans, everyone wants her. So I figured once he was done with me he would go back to her, and I would have my broken heart, sure, but why not take the chance while it was there? But then he and I started having... discussions.”

“About your scars?”

She looked startled, and Tina supposed the other woman hadn't expected her to put all of that together. “Yeah,” she said. “My birth parents were really religious. I started moving things around and making them disappear when I was three, I guess they started to catch on that I was the one causing it. I didn't remember a lot, but Mr James let me look at my files about a year ago and it all started to come rushing back. They beat me all the time, they locked me in this small space... it was a pantry, I think? A couple of times they tied me down and there was a priest that tried to exorcise me. None of it worked. Then my birth father filled a tub and put me underwater, hoping to... drown out whatever he thought was inside of me. I was so scared I started to cause the water to boil, and I almost died. That was when the Children's Department broke in and got me and took me to Lady Talon's. I wasn't there for long, mama adopted me pretty soon after.”

Tina shuddered. She thought, again, of Credence. Modesty, too. Children who slipped through the cracks, their abilities so quiet and dormant that they couldn't be found. Tina had once considered a career in the investigative section of the Children's Services Department; it was a tough place, even compared to Law Enforcement. It was either calm and peaceful, or something terrible was happening. Tina preferred the constant vigilance of being an Auror. “So you got angry?” she asked.

“In part,” Geneva admitted. “Mostly it was the thought that it was still going on. That boy, in New York? The papers said he hadn't been registered as a wizard, that's why it took so long for MACUSA to find him. But I can read between the lines. The only way to be unregistered and underage here is to never have been pegged as a witch or wizard in the first place. It happened around the same time Tobias started to get interested in me and he brought it up. I see why, now.”

“So he got under your skin and riled you up?”

“Basically. Which brings me to New Year's Eve. He told me he needed to get something from Kate, that it was absolutely vital that he do so, that everything was going to start happening quickly. I was excited.” Her voice turned sour with disappointment in herself. “We were finally going to get something done instead of just talking about it.

“So I went to Kate's and we were having a few pre-party cocktails. Tobias told me to keep Kate there as long as I could, since he needed the party to get in full swing first and establish his alibi. Anyone in the family can Apparate in and out of his home, no one else. I feel stupid for not being suspicious that he needed such an elaborate cover story. But I guess stupidity is just something I've been doing lately.

“So I had Kate teaching me how to mix a few drinks when Tobias arrived and knocked on the door. I remember Kate going, 'Who could that be? Well, more the merrier.'”

Geneva's voice broke, and she looked over her shoulder to where her mother was sitting with Dorian. Tina looked too. The both of them had their backs to the front of the boat, Damiana's head on Dorian's shoulder, watching the ripples in the water. The sound of the motor not only disguised Tina and Geneva's conversation, but theirs as well.

“Go on,” Tina said.

“Tobias just came in and pulled his wand on Kate and ordered her to give him 'the doll'. Kate refused. And then she saw that I wasn't on her side and she gave me... this look. It was horrible. But she went to open the cupboard and get what Tobias wanted, and he cursed her when her back was turned. I tried to scream but he put a muffling charm on the place, and he grabbed me and Apparated me back to his house and locked me in a wardrobe and told me to stay put. I screamed and tried to break my way out but I couldn't. I don't know how long I was in there – maybe a half hour – before the door opened and it was Veronique.

“She started to attack me and at first I thought it was because she had found out I had been seeing Tobias behind her back. Then she had her arms around my throat and I thought she was going to kill me and I heard Tobias say 'enough'... and she stopped.”

Tina frowned. “She _stopped_? That... doesn't sound like Veronique.”

Geneva's face had gone dark. “That's because it wasn't,” she said, quietly, brushing a few strands of hair away from her face. “She let go and then helped me off the floor and her face was just covered in tears – I've never seen her cry – and she looked so _angry_ and she said, 'You're going to burn.' Only she was talking to Tobias.

“Then Tobias told us we were to go to The Dame and Veronique was to retrieve all the papers on Lady Talon's and then burn the place down. He said he was going to make sure my mother showed up, so if I didn't do what I was told then I would have to watch Veronique kill her, and then she would kill me. He said Mr Graves might be there, too, and he would be framed for the murder. He said to Veronique, 'remember what I said about Graves'.

“So we went. I was too frightened to talk to Veronique and in any case, we met two people there, a man and a woman. I don't know who they were. Veronique and I got all of us in without setting off any alarms, and I was able to open the locked drawer in mama's desk and Veronique took out all the files on Lady Talon's. That was when I started to get really scared at the thought of Tobias wanting to know where all those kids were. I just couldn't understand any of it.

“Then mama showed up and Veronique dragged me out and took me away, she wouldn't even let me see if mama got out alive or not. She met Tobias in an alleyway and he Apparated us all to his house again, and then they knocked me out.”

Tina nodded. She was going to have to pull this memory out of her head and put it in a Pensieve later to accurately record it for her reports, but for now she just listened and committed as much as she could to her recollections. “And that's when you went missing.”

“Yes. I found out that Kate was in hospital the next day, but mama was alive. Tobias wanted to go and have Kate killed, but he calmed down when he found out she hadn't woken up.”

It was on the tip of Tina's tongue to tell Geneva about the curse Tobias had inflicted on Kate, but she didn't. It wouldn't help the other woman, knowing just what kind of damage had been caused; better to tell her when all of this was over, hopefully when Kate was back on her feet.

“So then we had to decode mama's files. I knew how to do it but it all needed to be done by hand. And Tobias was angry about something, I think about Mr Graves and how he escaped. He kept yelling these horrible things at Veronique and Ronny just sat there and never talked back, but every now and then she would tell Tobias how much she wanted to kill him, or that he was going to die soon.”

“Did you find out what was wrong with her?” Because by now, Tina could understand from the telling of the tale that something dark had occurred. There was a dangerous curse she knew of that MACUSA liked to keep under wraps, but people under the Imperius Curse were only servile, and unlikely to utter threats to their captor unless they had broken free of it.

“Yes,” Geneva shuddered. “I could tell everything she was doing she didn't want to do, unless he was telling her to 'act like she was having a good time', or something, then she would smile. But, whenever I tried to escape or leave, he would order Veronique to hurt me and that was worse than just being beaten, because I knew it was hurting her to be forced to do those things to me. When we were alone I asked what was happening, and she said she thought she was a zombie.”

Tina's eyebrows flew up at the strange word. “A what?”

“It's...” Geneva grappled with the explanation. “It's this spell... ritual... thing. You hear it spoken every so often but you never hear about it being done because it's so difficult and it's just... wrong. You feed someone the right potions and then they appear to die, so their relatives mourn them and bury them. Then after the funeral you go and dig them up because they aren't really dead, and you wake them up with more potions, and then they have to do whatever you tell them to and they're your slave. Then you can use them to do all sorts of things and no one will ever come looking for them, because everyone thought they died.”

“But Veronique didn't have a funeral, unless I missed _that_ party.”

“She thinks he did it when they went away to the country some weekend, they did that a few times during the summer. Then he probably obliviated her so she didn't remember it happening. She told me she didn't find out until a few days ago when he started asking her about this voodoo doll she'd made of Percival Graves, and it all just came out. She couldn't do anything about it, he ordered her to act natural and be loyal to him. She hated it.”

Tina considered that. “How would Tobias be able to pull off turning her into a zombie? Is it that easy?” If so, that was very worrying.

But Geneva shook her head. “Ronny thinks he went through her library and found the spell. He might know someone who can brew potions really well, someone else who's working for Grindelwald, or maybe Grindelwald himself. She said she hopes he made a mess of it and she breaks out and 'can peel his skin off'.”

That definitely sounded more like Veronique. “Aurors are adept at potions,” Tina said. “He probably had a traitor in the department mix it all up for him. Continue, Geneva, please. This is very important for me to know.”

The other woman nodded. “Well, we laid low, for a bit,” she said. “This little cabin just outside of New Orleans. I kept begging him to let me go but he said not until he was done with me and my family. He still wanted my help getting into Lady Talon's so he could kidnap this little girl, and when I swore I wouldn't he just told me he was going to kill my whole family and that if I didn't want to help him, so be it.”

“So then you went to Lady Talon's tonight.”

Geneva paused. Tina forced herself not to interrupt, sensing they were on the cusp of something else.

“Yes,” she said, slowly.

“Geneva?”

“He spoke with someone before we left. He said to tell the rest to look out for Mariana Moon. I think he suspects you're not who you claimed to be.”

 _Damn it_ , Tina thought. But she shrugged. “It was bound to happen sooner or later,” she said. The minute a traitorous Auror saw her, her cover would be blown regardless. She would have to ask for a description of each person Geneva had seen, to try to mentally match it up to any of Tina's coworkers. “So you saw Perciva– Mr Graves, tonight?”

She nodded. “I told him to look for Modesty Barebone after he told me to come here and see you. So now here we are.”

Tina could only hope he found Modesty – but, of course he would. When had he ever failed her?

Suddenly, the sound of the motor stopped. “Here we are,” Dorian announced, in an uncanny echo of what Geneva just said.

'Here' was a ramshackle looking shack sitting on stilts in the water. The boat nosed up to the porch that was half-eaten by rot, and Dorian tied a rope around it. “What is this place?” Tina asked. Some type of safe house, she assumed; somewhere they couldn't be found. She leaned over the edge of the boat, breathing in the deep, earthy smell of the swamp, realizing suddenly that it was not just the water and trees and plants she smelled but something else, too. A powerful undercurrent of magic. It was probably impossible to Apparate or Disapparate here, or even track the location on a map. There were places in America that had a thick taste of magic like this one, where spells and all else went a bit haywire.

“Just a spot to duck and cover,” Dorian said, frankly. Damiana was looking at him with concern, but her eyes were dark with the sort of love men wrote operas about. She wondered at what they had been talking about, while Tina had been questioning Geneva.

 

It took about ten minutes for Tina to figure it out. After that she stood on the porch, where the wood seemed sturdiest, and smoked with Dorian. Damiana and Geneva sat in the boat, mother fussing over daughter. She had hurriedly packed up all the food that had been on the table, and was getting Geneva to eat most, if not all, of it.

Through the window – there were no shutters, no glass panes, no curtain – the inside of the shack was torn to pieces. What had once been a bed was ripped apart, chewed and savaged. Claw marks littered the walls and ceiling. Tina noticed that the marks themselves looked fresh, though the shack was clearly very old.

Nothing about Dorian had set off any red flags for Tina. There was no telltale grey or silver in his dark hair, his clothes were well-made and fitted, he was not undernourished or poverty-stricken or aged by stress. Then again, all of that was so easily solved by money, which he clearly retained through his employment and relationship with Damiana Rawley. That in itself was the rarity, the one thing no one would ever expect: someone out there who was not only willing to employ, but also become involved with, a werewolf.

Naturally, someone in Dorian's position was in no mood to be overtly scrutinized by the authorities, so that explained his quick exit from Tobias Mope's New Year's Party. Once a werewolf was identified and registered, that was it. She recalled Percival mentioning before how Dorian was rarely in the city, was usually off overseeing shipments for Damiana. She figured it would be easy to hide the fact you were absent every month during the full moon if no one but your boss – who was also your lover – knew your work schedule.

Before, Tina might have balked, worried for her safety – and, admittedly, for a moment at first she did have that instinctual flash of fear, but it came and went and suddenly she was calm again. She had to work off of experience and research, not prejudice. “How often do you use this?” she asked, nodding over her shoulder. “Every month?”

“Only when the kids are around, to be safe,” Dorian said, with a shrug. He took a drag from his cigarette. “Otherwise I run with the rougarou, they keep me in line.”

Another strange word; that was twice in one night. “The what?”

He smiled at her. “Haven't you seen them?” he asked. “They especially like Violetta Beauvais' properties. They listen to her more than they listen to me.”

“Are they a creature?” If so, she wondered if Newt knew about them.

“Of a sort,” he said. “They've been stalking these swamps ever since there was something to stalk. If you see one, you'll know one. And then you should run.”

“How pleasant.”

He laughed. “Are you going to tell Percival Graves?” he asked. “That was Damiana's big concern. You might see her glaring at you from the corner of your eye, considering obliviating you.”

“I see her,” Tina said, flicking ash down into the water. “No, I won't tell him, not unless it's important to the case.”

“Good.”

“For the record,” she added, “I don't think he'd do anything about it unless he had to.” Still, she supposed she didn't want to test that theory out on him. She wasn't even pleased that she was finding herself tested in this way. It would be easier with Newt; he'd already done so much with altering her perceptions. She still remembered, with a flash of surprise at her old ways, asking Newt if his book he was writing was an extermination guide. Tina refused to be so pigheaded about the world anymore.

She flicked her cigarette into the water, and shook her head when he offered her another one. She didn't want to make herself sick. “I'll stay with you all until morning,” she said. “Then I will need to go back to Violetta's. If she agrees, she can shelter you there while we make other arrangements with MACUSA. I need to report in to Percival and I doubt he can reach us out here.”

“No one can,” Dorian said, confirming her earlier suspicions. “There's too much magic here. That's what makes it so convenient right now. In the morning we can take the boat to a less unstable place.”

 

Tina had turned down the offer to sleep in the boat; the thought of laying there while alligators or anything else swam underneath the floorboards was too unsettling. She stayed on the porch, leaning her back against the wall, sitting upright with her wand on her lap just in case. She didn't think she'd be able to sleep, anyway.

Sleep she did, however, dropping off into a doze, lulled by the whistling and chirping of the insects all about her, the creak of the boat and the steady breathing of her companions. She dreamt she was sitting, not on the porch of the shack but instead on the deck of a home she had not seen before, but reminded her of Gloria and Antoine's – warm, sunny, golden, comforting. Percival was nowhere in sight but she had a feeling that he was nearby, and that added to her sense of calm.

Then, though, something began to change. The colour started to drain from everything and a darkness gathered; at first it was like a shadow, like when the clouds passed over the sun, but soon the murkiness around her grew deeper. Tina's pulse picked up and she leaned forward and scented blood on the wind.

And then something happened to her heart. It seemed to jump in her chest, so strongly it brought her awake with a start, blinking as her eyes focused on the paper lanterns above the boat and then at the emotion and purpose that was coursing through her veins.

She had never felt such a deathly rage before, not even when she had faced down Mary Lou Barebone or been fired from the Auror Department. And it was not just anger she felt but a desire that burned through her blood and without thinking more of it she was suddenly on her feet, and tried to Apparate.

She felt more than heard the _crack_ as her attempt rebounded, and a flutter of hair drifted down around her – she had just lost some, she figured, in the failed attempt to shift her physical space. There was nothing else for it, then. She drew her wand on the two Rawleys, who were sitting startled and upright in the boat, staring at her.

“Out!” she commanded. “I need that boat. Give me the boat!”

“Did you just try to Apparate?” Geneva asked, while Damiana snarled, “What the Hell, woman?”

Tina opened her mouth, a hex floating on her tongue, when she was tackled roughly from behind and hit the water with a resounding splash.

She swallowed swamp water as she thrashed, struggling to throw Dorian off, but he was much bulkier and heavier than her. They sank like stones. She couldn't see, it was too dark in the water, but she felt her boots touch mud before giving away. She twisted about, aiming her wand at him, trying to fire a spell, when she felt him plant both feet to her midsection and kick, pushing himself away. Her breath was forced from her with a gasp and she ended up inhaling more water. Desperate, she clawed her way to the surface. Angry, she was so _angry_!

She broke the surface of the water, gasping for breath, before something cracked against the back of her head and she blacked out.

 

She woke on the porch, her head hanging over the side, which was a good thing, because she felt the water surging in her lungs. She turned her head and threw up the bit of Louisiana swamp she had swallowed, then, her eyes streaming and her brain burning, she struggled to get to her feet. She made eye contact with Geneva, who was staring at her in terror, before she yet again blacked out.

 

This time, when Tina woke up, she was bound by ropes and sitting at the bottom of the boat. She could tell that it had been a stupefying spell that had taken her out the second time around. She was glad; she didn't think her skull could take another hit, throbbing as it was. Tina shifted her foot in her boot, feeling the soggy squelch of the anti-hoodoo bag Violetta had given her tucked beneath her toes. She hoped it still worked; for all she knew, what had just happened could have been much worse.

The anger was gone, replaced only by emptiness and cold. There was a blanket draped over her, which did little to resolve the chill that had sunk into her bones. Almost on cue, she began to shiver violently. “I'm so sorry,” she croaked out, her throat dry. She was glad they'd been kind enough to fish her out, instead of letting her get eaten by an alligator.

“Alright, Miss Murderous,” Damiana said, frowning down at her. “What the Hell just happened?”

“Water,” Tina requested. She felt like every time she spoke she was coughing up glass.

“I'll do you one better,” Damiana said. She held a small metal cup of water to Tina's lips and helped her drink, before producing a flask full of whiskey. Over her shoulder Tina saw Geneva at the door of the shack, safely distant – the boat had been tied on a long lead, and there were only Tina and Damiana in it. Dorian was out of sight, but no doubt ready to pounce again if he had to.

The water cleared her throat and the whiskey warmed her stomach. It was the best she could hope for, for now. “There's a voodoo doll of me out there,” she said. “And I think someone just tried to use it.”

“To do what?”

“I'm not sure,” Tina said, though she was.

She'd wanted to kill the President. That anger and purpose thrumming through her had been unmistakable and unforgettable, so impossible to ignore. The only explanation was that the voodoo doll had been put to use. Tobias might still have it, or maybe one of his cronies, but there was only one reason someone might compel her to attack, of all people, Seraphina Picquery: they were still under the impression the doll was connected to Percival, who was usually in close quarters with the President. Which meant that, in all likelihood, Percival was back at MACUSA in New York – and Tina could not, under any circumstances, go anywhere near there. “I need to find Veronique. She's the one who made it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry you had to wait so long, my loves, but I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I did my best to fill in the blanks I left earlier in the story as the mystery unfolded, but if I missed anything or something doesn't make sense, let me know! I might be hiding it on purpose... or I just forgot/made an oopsie. I've made a bunch so far, hahahaha (like how about me not realizing Queenie ALSO worked in the Wand Permit Office when I first started this story? OOPSIE.) I also haven't edited this chapter as well as I have some others, so there may be more mistakes than you're used to.
> 
> I've been borrowing a lot of Voodoo stuff that I haven't been mentioning specifically, but the zombie thing is definitely from Haitian Voodoo (look up Felicia Felix-Mentor if you want to know more).


	20. what was buried

Tina had been dried off, but she had a feeling she still smelt like swamp. Unfortunately, there wasn't much time to do anything about it as she gathered her things.

Geneva, somehow, had convinced her mother to let her go along with Tina. The fact she was an adult had been voiced, but Tina had a feeling it was Dorian pointing out that Geneva was her mother's daughter and, permission gained or not, she would end up accompanying Tina one way or another, that really set the argument in Geneva's favour.

While Tina would rather not have to babysit a civilian, it would be easier to find Veronique with her help. Tina had to come to terms with the fact that Percival's orders had, essentially, run out. The difference between a good worker and a good Auror, she knew, was the ability to look at the situation and make the important, often difficult, choices. Percival had left her in charge of Damiana and Dorian, but things had changed and now she needed to take matters into her own hands, for the good of MACUSA.

In any case Dorian and Damiana were safe, for the time being, and they had their own ways of getting a message out to their allies. Finding Veronique took precedence; bewitched or not, Veronique would be a valuable source of information. Even if Damiana ran off and disappeared, well, digging her up again was a small problem compared to the potential catastrophe Tobias Mope and Grindelwald posed America.

Now they were on the boat again, making for the nearest shore. From there she and Geneva could travel outside the sticky magic of the swamp (Tina had been lucky that she'd only lost some hair while she had been compelled to attempt Apparating by the voodoo doll; splinching could often be much worse than a bit of hair loss) and safely Apparate back to New Orleans. Once there, she would perform a highly complicated tracking spell to pinpoint the location of Geneva's wand and that would, hopefully, lead them to the house where Tobias had gone to ground. They would rely on Geneva's memory of her surrounding to get as close to the area as they could; the spell was more successful the closer they were.

Sitting at the front end of the boat, Tina made a show of leaning over the edge to look into the dark, murky water. While she did so she surreptitiously dropped her beaded handbag in, where it quickly sunk out of sight. There was no way she would trust leaving those files with Damiana, and carrying them around would be a liability. Hopefully, Tina would be able to retrieve them herself, when the time came.

The boat nudged into ground. Though the vessel was flat-bottomed and got them close to shore, she and Geneva still had to wade through calf-deep water before getting onto dry ground, which was barely firmer than the swamp itself was. Tina's boots sank with a squelch.

There was movement in the trees. Tina drew her wand.

“Steady,” Dorian cautioned from behind her, still on the boat with Damiana.

The rustle of vegetation heralded the arrival of a creature Tina swore she had seen before, even though she thought she would remember meeting such a beast. It was like a wolf, larger than any dog she had seen, with eyes that gleamed like a reflection of light. But most striking of all was its fur. While matted and dirty in some places from the swampy surroundings, it was a soft shade of white that reflected the lamps from the boat.

“The rougarou,” Geneva said, sinking down to her knees on the muddy ground. “Kneel,” she muttered, urgently, to Tina, who also dropped down to the ground, though she really rather wouldn't. That felt too much like inviting the animal to go for her throat now that she had brought it closer to the level of its jaws.

The undergrowth shifted and two more rougarou appeared. Tina took her cue from Geneva and was perfectly still as the first rougarou approached and snuffled into Geneva's hair, before going to inspect Tina. Its breath smelt of old blood. Suddenly, Tina recalled where she knew the rougarou from: the shape of Violetta Beauvais' lighter.

Then, so quickly Tina only saw a blur of fur and felt the rush of air, the beast leaped over her and splashed into the water. She looked over her shoulder before she could rethink exposing the back of her neck to the other two, and saw Dorian leaning out of the boat, bending his head down until he and the rougarou were eye to eye.

“They'll take you the rest of the way,” Dorian said after a moment, pulling away. Damiana remained safely tucked in the boat, watching the exchange warily. “They consider Geneva to be my cub, and they've seen you with Beauvais, they trust you.”

“You're lucky, they don't even like me,” Damiana told Tina, wryly, from the boat.

He barked a laugh. “They certainly don't.”

“Keep her safe, Goldstein,” Damiana said. “I'll know if you don't.”

Tina got out of the mud and to her feet. The rougarou that had gone to greet Dorian was back ashore, shaking off the water.

“Bye, mama,” Geneva said. “I love you.”

“Love you too, baby.”

Dorian pushed off. She and Tina stood on the shore, watching the slow, steady glide of the boat away from them until they were swallowed by the shadows of the trees and, finally, even the lights of the lamps winked out.

Geneva turned to Tina. “Ever ride a horse?” she asked.

“What?” she was taken aback by the strange question. “No.”

The younger woman shook her head. “Well, damn,” she said. “This is going to be a weirder experience than usual, then.”

 

When Dorian had said the rougarou would 'take them the rest of the way', she assumed he meant as an escort against the other dangers of the swamp. Turned out, he was actually speaking quite literally.

Riding a wolf-like beast was definitely not something she ever thought about doing, but she didn't see how knowing how to ride horseback would have even been remotely close to the experience. For one, a rougarou was not the size or structure of a horse, so she clutched it wildly around the neck hoping she would not fall off. Secondly, she didn't think horses practically leaped through gaps in trees and branches as if they were trying to score points based on how loudly she gasped in terror.

Eventually the experience didn't so much grow on her as she found it better to not pay attention to her surroundings; she instead buried her face into the rougarou's neck so she wouldn't have to see anything. Despite everything, the beast had a familiar, comforting scent, reminding her of a dog owned by one of the No-Maj newspaper vendors she passed on her way to MACUSA every morning.

Eventually the loping began to slow. How long had it been? Not as long as it felt, likely. The blood still rushing in her veins from the speed, she began to sit up as the rougarou slowed to a trot before stopping.

They were still in overgrown swamp but the air was clearer, here. Tina had the sensation of having finally climbed out of water where her movements had been slow, sluggish, and difficult to execute. Now she was back on dry land, as it were. Still, she stumbled slightly as she dismounted, feeling oddly disjointed after her ride.

Geneva had been travelling ahead of her and was already standing and at ease, rubbing her hand over the back of the rougarou that had carried her, before scratching companionably behind its ears. His cub, Dorian had called her. Tina wondered how long he had been in Geneva's life; she could picture him at the house in the bayou, Geneva as a small girl perched jauntily on his hip, babysitting while Damiana was away. Were the twins she kept hearing about also so cared for? They must be.

“Goodbye,” Geneva said, respectfully sinking down to her knees again. At her nod, Tina did the same.

To her surprise, the rougarou that had carried her nipped her gently on the shoulder, just a passing pressure, before all three of them disappeared back into the undergrowth. “Is that good?” Tina asked, rubbing her shoulder.

Geneva grinned. “It's not bad,” she said. “Come on, let's Apparate. I want to see civilization again.”

“You know where we're going?”

“I can take us into the right area,” Geneva confirmed. “Don't worry, I won't splinch us. I remember. It was a house with a porch swing in the front, and a blue door. That was before he covered my face, and then I don't think it took more than an hour to get where we were going to.”

“Alright,” Tina said, holding out her hand. “Let's get your wand back and find Veronique.”

 

The sky was just beginning to lighten as they walked down what could generously be called a street. Actually, it was a dirt road, with houses spread about; the kind of place where it helped to have a bike or a car to take you around, but a good walk could get you to the grocery store just as well. As night was over, Tina was glad they were near to their destination; she was sure this was the type of place where strangers were noticed, and she didn't want to cast more magic than necessary to hide themselves.

Tina was following Geneva; since it was her wand they were tracking, it was Geneva who knew which way to go. She had assured Tina that it felt like they were close, but Tina still walked right into the other woman when she suddenly stopped.

“Here,” she said, pointing up the snaking path that led to the front door. “It's this house.”

It looked like every other house they had passed. The front yard was unfenced and undecorated, though the grass had recently been cut. Paint flaked off the railings and sides, and part of the front porch seemed to be sagging, but it was sturdy enough as they walked up. Tina went first, her wand out, but she could detect no magic or spells to keep them out. That was what concerned her: if there was nothing to keep them out, perhaps there was nothing worthwhile to protect inside? Still, no way of knowing without checking.

The door was locked. “ _Alohomora_ ,” she murmured, and the door swung open on creaking hinges. The two of them stood there for some time, listening, but the house was utterly silent. Tina knelt down and whispered another spell; a small, glowing ball zipped away from the end of her wand and flickered to the side, zooming throughout the house, then up the stairs and out of sight.

After about ten seconds, the glowing ball returned, silently imploding into mist in front of Tina. She nodded. “No one's home,” she said. “Come on.”

Geneva closed the door behind them and they stood in the entryway, looking around. Though abandoned, the house had a bad feeling about it.

“Try not to touch anything,” Tina cautioned. She did not bother to tell Geneva that the air was thick with Dark magic; if the young woman couldn't sense it by now after all she had been through, then she never would. Tina was mostly worried that traps had been laid but, as she stepped through the front door sensing all about her, wand at the ready, the place seemed quiet.

Only small things alerted Tina to the chaos that had been in the house. An ink bottle, knocked over on the desk, there; a book lying open, pages-down on the floor, here; a broken glass by the back door.

There was, on the kitchen table, a pot of tea. Tina laid her hand against it, checking. It was cold. So was the stove, but there was water spilt on the floor that had yet to dry, courtesy of the broken glass. Tina lowered herself into a crouch, inspecting the partial boot print she found there, the dirt turning to mud when it met the spilt water.

She heard Geneva walking slowly about in the living room behind her, and straightened up as she came into the kitchen. “Some things are gone,” she said. “Not a lot, but some. And I found some books but they've been wiped blank.”

Tina pushed the back door open, stepping over the spilt water and out onto the rickety porch. “They made a hasty exit, recently. A couple hours at most, I'd say. Watch your step.”

The backyard was small, the grass yellowing and the garden overgrown, and unlike the front yard it had been fenced. There was no shed, only a chair next to which there was a small clay pot, likely used to dispose of cigarettes.

There was also a patch of earth, roughly six feet in length and three feet in width, out by the fence, that had been disturbed. Dirt and grass were mixed and muddied in a chilling lump raised just above ground level. Tina reached out behind her and gripped Geneva's wrist. “Was that there when you left?” she asked, quietly.

She sensed Geneva's gaze over her shoulder, trying to spot what Tina was looking at. Then she heard a gasp.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Is that...?”

Tina leaped lightly down the steps and hurried forward, sweeping her wand back and forth, wary for anything to leap out at her but, just as it had been inside the house, the yard seemed abandoned. Stopping at the mound of earth, she dropped to her knees and laid her hand upon it. There was no spell buried there, not that she could sense, and even when casting a revealing charm, nothing came up. It was not a trap, at least not on the surface. It seemed Tobias had truly not appeared to have expected Geneva to return here, let alone bring anyone with her.

“What do we do?” Geneva asked. Her voice was tight with worry. “Do you know any.... digging spells?”

“Not exactly.”

A displacement charm ought to do the trick. It was normally used to push something heavy, like boulders, but it could work to dig something up as well. Since they didn't know what was under there – though Tina had an uncomfortable idea – she would have to be careful. She waved her wand, gently, beginning to move aside the dirt, piling it on either side. Though time could be of the essence she forced herself to go slow, shifting layer by layer. It was the same as using something a No-Maj might, like a shovel; since she didn't know what was underneath, she didn't want to accidentally damage what she was digging up.

“Go inside and find your wand,” she said, over her shoulder. “And look for clues as to where everyone could have gone.”

“What if you need help?”

“Keep an eye out the window if you like, but I'll be fine. You'll get more out of what's happened here than I will.”

To her relief, Geneva went back inside of the house. Tina had the uncanny feeling she was looking down at a grave, and she didn't think Geneva ought to see what she finally unearthed if that was, indeed, the case.

The sun was rising and the yard, even in its dilapidated state, had the look of beauty that came in early morning. Tina felt a bead of sweat trickle down her neck as she continued to work the spell. She dare not get impatient and rush things...

She felt rather than heard a scrape as her magic connected with something denser than dirt. Tina stopped and looked into the hole.

It was only about four feet deep but, sure enough, amidst all of the dirt there was a patch of what was unmistakably the rough surface of a pine box. Her throat tightened and she raised her wand to continue to clear the soil out, but the shift in her weight sent a scatter of dirt from the edge down into the hole. It included a pebble or two that clattered against the exposed wood.

Suddenly a fierce banging emanated from the hole, and a loud, muffled yell. Tina jumped in shock and almost fell in.

“Let me out!” through the commotion and the racket, that could clearly be heard.

Tina was in the strange predicament of both aiding in a rescue, but needing to be prepared to take down whoever it was in case they were dangerous. She had a shrewd idea of who it was, though, and so did not call out for Geneva just yet. Unless the other woman found her wand, she would be of no help anyway.

Tina swept her wand about and dislodged a large amount of soil, able to move more quickly now that she saw what she was working with. She stood on the edge, and sent a charm down that would cause the pine box to crack open.

It both worked, and didn't. The fists that had been hammering below were beating with a renewed vigour, so that when the wood cracked, one of the fists plunged right through, splintering the wood. It was both terrifying and impressive. Tina had half a mind to tell Veronique – and it had to be her, judging from the expensive bracelet she saw glinting on the wrist down below – to calm down but, then again, she didn't think she'd be feeling too calm either at the prospect of climbing out of a pine box after being buried alive.

Tina stood back and watched as Veronique burst out like a fish leaping from water, throwing aside the badly-nailed beams of wood. She was covered in dirt and speaking what seemed to be a mix of Spanish and French and, from her vehemence, Tina assumed it was very colourful language she was using.

“Out of the way!” she finally shouted in English, clambering out of the box the rest of the way and digging her hands into the side of the grave, heaving herself up. “I need a toilet! I thought I was going to piss myself in there before the end!”

 

Tina had done her best to try to control Veronique into a semblance of order, but the other woman refused to be swayed from her path. “I need to be hosed down,” she spat. “I'm covered in dirt from my own grave, _you_ try to focus when your boyfriend buries you alive!”

Tina tried to comfort herself with the idea that Percival wouldn't have had any luck with Veronique either. Or perhaps he would have been too wise to try. As it was, it didn't take long for Veronique to wash herself up and change into some fresh clothes, by which time Tina and Geneva had finished their canvassing of the house, including finding Geneva's wand.

“He made me dig it myself,” Veronique said, her short hair sticking out in wet spikes after her quick bathing. She still had dirt underneath her fingernails, visible where the lacquer had chipped away. “Then he said – this is rich – 'go ahead, you're free to get yourself out! Just no magic, darling.' I'll kill him. I swear he wasn't so sadistic when I met him, but I think Grindelwald's done a number on him. Not that that is any excuse.”

“So he left you for dead,” Tina said.

“Yes, don't look at me like that,” Veronique growled. “I know what you're thinking. Did he plant me as a trap? Well, he didn't. I can prove it, too.”

“How?”

“Your voodoo doll was buried with me,” she said, pointing out into the back lawn. “Maybe go and fetch it? I knew it was yours the moment I clapped eyes on it. I made it, after all.”

Narrowing her eyes with suspicion but having no other choice, Tina got to her feet and went out into the backyard, trying not to run, and hopped down into the shallow would-be grave. Sure enough, tucked in at the foot of the rough coffin was the doll she had altered to look like Percival's only days ago. It was covered in dirt but, more or less, still in one piece.

When she got back inside the house, Veronique had unearthed a bottle of wine and was drinking it out of a teacup. Geneva, wisely, was not drinking any of it.

“Explain,” Tina said.

Veronique just smiled. “He was so angry with me last night,” she said, instead. “Waving that doll about and screaming at me over why it wasn't working. I had to tell him the truth, of course, so I told him that it _was_ working. I have to admit, I'm pleased to see you're still in one piece. Put up some protection, did you?”

“Something like that,” Tina hedged. Violetta had given her strict instruction not to talk about it to anyone but Percival or the President.

“Well, all we knew was that Graves wasn't doing what he was supposed to be doing,” Veronique said, sipping her wine. “So said the reports we got. He accused me of sabotaging the doll. I denied that. Then he said I didn't build it right. I denied that too. Then he got angry enough and decided I'd fulfilled my purpose, so he sent me out into the yard with a shovel and made sure I dug it deep enough. I thought I was going to die down there.”

“That's why he buried you?” Geneva asked, looking horrified.

Veronique looked calm. “He's a smart boy, Tobias,” she said. “But emotional, acts on impulse a lot. And when he doesn't get his way he throws quite the temper tantrum. I could deal with it back when I had all of my faculties, but unfortunately...”

“Can you disobey him at _all_?” Tina asked.

“Not one bit. But he doesn't think I'm useful to him anymore, that's why he was so keen to throw me away.” She crossed her arms over her chest and raised her eyebrows at Tina. “So. Who _are_ you, anyway? Tobias had his suspicions. And I heard Geneva call you 'Tina'. So?”

Tina waved her hand. “No,” she said. “First you're going to tell me if Tobias is going to come back.”

“At some point, maybe. But soon? Unlikely.”

“And how long ago did he leave?”

She shrugged. “I was underground for a few hours. So sometime between then and now.”

“How do we know she's not lying?” Geneva asked Tina, worriedly. Veronique gave her an offended look but, presumably, understood that the question had merit, because she didn't protest.

Tina tapped her chin, thoughtfully. “He buried her with the doll,” she said, considering the item in question, laying on the table before her. “He was more or less throwing it – and her – in the garbage. I think it's safe to say he didn't expect her to get dug up, or plan for that eventuality. If she's a trap, she's a damn good one.”

“Thank you,” Veronique said, voice heavily layered with sarcasm, and drained her teacup. A dribble of wine went down her chin and she hurriedly wiped it away, before going to refill her cup. Her hands trembled slightly. Percival had been the one to tell her to watch people's hands; they showed the truth more often than faces did. Veronique was not as unaffected by her brush with death as she was pretending to be. That, above everything else, convinced Tina that Veronique had truly been left for dead, not as a ploy. “So? Do I get to find out who you are?”

“She's an Auror. Sorry,” Geneva added to Tina, sheepishly, when she glared. “I thought she seemed trustworthy enough?”

Veronique's smile was a little too Cheshire Cat-like for Tina's comfort, but she did seem genuinely pleased. “An Auror, huh?” she said. “Good. Then we have a fighting chance to give Toby what he deserves.”

Tina had no intention in letting Veronique exact revenge, but she felt it would not be a good idea to mention that just then. Instead she said, “There's the small problem of you having to do whatever he commands.”

“He won't command me if he stills thinks I'm dead,” she said. “We better go fill that grave in, in case he comes back later and sees I've been dug up.”

“And then we get out of here,” Tina said, in a voice that brooked no argument. “And you are going to tell me every single thing you know about Tobias Mope and his organization.”

Veronique laughed mirthlessly. “Gladly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey peeps! Sorry this took so long, wow, life got crazy.  
> Also, check out the dates on the fic! It's been a little over three months since I posted the first chapter and we also bypassed 100,000 words of story. Wow <3 thank you to those of you who stuck in there from the first, and to those of you who came after, and to those of you who just joined the story. Y'all give me the pep I need to write this monstrosity.
> 
> This was another Tina chapter but I couldn't abide the thought of leaving you on that cliffhanger with the voodoo doll reveal, and after that huge info dump on what happened with Veronique. I needed to dig Ronny up, you understand right? Next chapter is about where Percival has been, and it'll be posted sooner rather than later, badumdum.
> 
> The other day I posted a list of faces for most of my OC's in this story. Mostly for my own reference but in case you were curious, it's [here](http://vodkertonic.tumblr.com/post/159350967274/just-for-my-reference-and-for-anyone-interested). Though naturally if you ever pictured any of my characters looking different from that, that's totally cool too! (Actually I'd be super curious if you had anyone specific in mind)
> 
> I love the rougarou, I wanted to write them in ever since I decided to bring in Violetta. I thought about giving them a definitive backstory (like perhaps the product of two werewolves who mated while transformed, like the wolves who live in the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts) but then I thought, nah, I like them much more as mysterious creatures living in the bayou, with their varied histories in folklore. Their connection with Violetta is that all of her wands were made out of swamp mayhew and rougarou hair, a fact which she kept secret. If she can get close enough to pluck a few hairs off, then it stood to reason they were friendly with her. I can't see her gunning any creature down to make a wand, I really can't. Violetta <3
> 
> Finally, I've been doing this for awhile, but sometimes I still google things I can't believe don't get me flagged by authorities and have men in suits knocking on my door. 'How long until you die after being buried alive' was one of those things.


	21. macusa

She disliked hospitals, like a lot of people; but it was not the smell or the sounds or the sickness that upset her, but the other visitors. The women were bad enough, clutching handkerchiefs or their necklaces... but the men were worse. There was a way a man held his hat when he was sitting in the waiting room that spoke to his entire mental state: twisting the brim nervously in his fingertips, warping the edge, or perhaps slowly running his thumb over the base, smoothing down the worn felt, the action heavy with indescribable sadness. She hated seeing that.

So when she walked the corridors, she made it a point to never look around her. Luckily, as the President, she was not required to notice anything but her own business, which was consuming enough of her attention at the moment. The call had come after she had only been in bed for a few hours, and then she was up and getting dressed and Apparating to St. Vincent's.

“It's not looking good, ma'am,” one of the healers said, frankly, as they both stood outside the operating room. She knew better than to attempt to sugarcoat anything for Seraphina. “He's responding to our treatments, but he's losing strength fast.”

“Have you alerted his family?”

“We've been told Lord and Lady Talon are in Egypt right now.”

“His grandmother and cousin should be available,” Seraphina said, and watched as the healer wrote that down. “They live in Philadelphia.”

Once, there had been many Talons to call upon, but the war had seen to thinning those ranks. Out of four siblings, James was the only one to have survived. How ironic that he had escaped the Great War in Europe, only to run into trouble on the grounds of one of the safest places in America.

“We'll do our best,” the healer said.

“Is Doctor Quijano in?”

“Not until eight, ma'am.”

Seraphina just closed her eyes, composing first her face before trying to still the panicked thud of her heart. James Talon had been in the same year as her at Ilvermorny, had held a special place as her first love. Like most of her dalliances, they had ended on good terms, and she was always willing to set time aside for him. He was sweet and kind, passionate about his charities, dedicated to his causes, and impressive in all of his accomplishments. She had been looking forward to perhaps collaborating with him when her term as President was over. After all, they were still all so young, despite all they had been through. There was so much more to do for the world.

“I'm not sure it would matter, anyway,” she said, quietly.

“Ma'am?”

“Ma'am!” Another voice called. Seraphina looked over her shoulder to see Sebastian Vidal rushing up to her, breathless. Her mouth pressed into a thin line upon seeing him.

“Where the Hell have you been?” she snapped. Whenever Percival was around running things, none of the Law Enforcement Department would ever have kept her waiting. She'd be happy when he was back where he belonged. “I summoned you an hour ago.”

“It's Graves, ma'am,” Sebastian said, looking very pleased with himself, if a little confused at what she was doing there. Clearly, he was not aware just how important James Talon had made himself to be in wizarding aristocracy. Several journalists had already been stopped and removed from the hospital, though Sera was sure they'd get their story one way or another by the time the morning papers ran. “We've arrested him... and he wasn't alone.”

“Who was with him?”

“A child. From Lady Talon's.”

Seraphina looked back through the glass, but the curtain was drawn and he was out of sight, now. She supposed it was better that way. She didn't want to think of James like that, bloody and blasted. She preferred him as the charming, dapper man of old, so quick to stand when a woman entered the room but also unafraid of hard work, or hard people, or even the darker things in life. _Forgive me, old friend_ , she thought. She wanted to stay and wait; but James, of all people, would understand that she had responsibilities and it was time to see to them.

“Doctor, send a memo to me when he improves,” she said, the words sounding wooden on her tongue, before turning to Vidal. “Alright. Show me to him. Give me a full report on the way.”

 

“So he kidnapped her after attacking James Talon,” Vidal was explaining. “We don't really understand what came after, ma'am. He broke into the Seattle offices and used the Floo network there to bring the both of them here, which is where he ended up tripping the security wards. He didn't put up a fight and he hasn't said a word. The girl is being looked after in the Minor Crime department, she hasn't spoken either, but she seems fine. One of the nurses is giving her a look over just to make sure she's in good health, but we doubt his intention was to harm her.”

“So what was he trying to do, then?”

“We aren't sure yet.”

Seraphina just shook her head. It was Percival Graves: nine times out of ten, when he was trying to get something accomplished, he did it before anyone else noticed. She was sure that he fully intended on being arrested, she just wasn't sure why none of the Aurors had noticed he had a presidential seal.

And where was Goldstein during all of this? Perhaps Percival had given the seal to her?

“You confiscated his wand? And his valuables?”

“Yes, we searched him.”

She had a feeling Percival had either disappointed her, or the entire set of enforcers on late night duty had. Knowing him as she did, she suspected the latter.

Walking into the hallways that led to the interrogation rooms, she stopped outside the only doorway that had a guard. Unsurprisingly, Vidal had taken the corner room, one which had an enchanted two-way wall for secretively watching criminals sweat in their shackles. Unfortunately, a bit of a waste, since Percival knew every single room in the Woolworth building, magical and non, and was aware he was sitting in front of an enchanted wall.

Beyond the viewing antechamber, the interrogation room itself was bare and plain, with only a table in the middle at which Percival Graves was sitting. His status as a powerful magician meant that his wrists were shackled to the very top of the table, in plain view and minimizing his movements so he could not even manage a simple wave of his hand. His posture, as ever, was impeccable.

Seraphina walked into the room, flanked by Vidal as well as Marcos, Durham and Nesbitt. Before walking in she had peered at Percival's effects, laid out in a tray just beyond the chamber. His wand, his watch, cigarette case, lighter, a ring. No presidential seal. “You're sure he's unarmed?” she'd asked.

“Yes.”

She dragged the chair back before the Aurors could attempt to get it for her, and sat down across from Percival, folding her arms across her chest. Behind her, Vidal spoke. “Director Graves, I don't think we need to express upon you how serious these allegations are. Lord Talon is at St Vincent's fighting for his life.”

Percival ignored Vidal, instead locked eyes with Seraphina, calmly waiting her command. She raised her eyebrows, silently questioning him, and then watched his gaze track over all of the Aurors assembled.

Looking over her shoulder, she saw his gaze had landed squarely on Seline Marcos. The way he was looking at her, Seraphina didn't need to ask for clarification.

“Everyone out,” she said. She allowed her voice to drop several degrees until a cold fury seeped out. It was easy; she _was_ angry, at Grindelwald, at whoever had laid James low, at the whole mess she had to deal with on top of everything else. She just had to pretend her rage was directed at Percival. “Not you, Marcos. You stay. I need a witness.”

All of the Aurors looked confused and nervous, Marcos most of all, and did not move. “Out!” Seraphina barked, and they immediately jumped to obey. “Out into the hallway and close the door behind you.”

While Seraphina had never stepped in as interrogator since she had become President, she had certainly been involved in her fair share of investigations, which everyone in the law departments knew – and desperate times called for desperate measures. At least, that's what she assumed the other Aurors would be thinking. Allow for a little private interrogation between the President and her former Director, and keep around an Auror that would vouch for Seraphina's good behaviour. Really, she just needed the privacy, and her righteous anger would work as a cover for the time being.

A few seconds later it was just the three of them. Marcos looked nervous, but she would get over it soon, Sera decided. “Alright,” she sighed, at Percival. “Spit it out.”

He raised his eyebrows at her, a small smile on his lips. Then he leaned forward and, just as she expected him to, he spat the ring out onto the tabletop.

It clanked and chimed in the silence, bouncing twice before settling. “'He hasn't said a word',” Seraphina repeated, dryly, looking over her shoulder at Marcos, who was gaping at the ring. “None of you didn't think to check his mouth? Look under his tongue?”

“We...” Marcus looked to be at a loss for words.

“Really, Seline,” Percival said. “I'm disappointed in you. No, Madame President, don't touch that. It's been in my mouth.”

“Tell me what this is, Marcos,” Sera said, holding the ring up for the Auror to look at. Marcos was flushing in high embarrassment.

“A presidential seal,” she said, softly.

“Correct,” she said. “And if you'd found it you'd have known that detaining Percival Graves would be counter to my orders. However, I suspect we are better off this way, as now we can maintain the Director's cover for a bit longer. I assume Marcos can be trusted?” She directed the last statement to him.

She watched Percival make eye contact with the Auror. Despite all of his responsibilities, of which only a fraction involved overseeing the Aurors, Sera knew that he always kept a close watch and a good relationship with everyone who worked Major Crimes. He always, _always_ called his Aurors by their first names, unless he was disciplining them. “We can, can't we, Seline?” he asked.

The flush on her face became deeper, if possible, but Sera knew it had more to do with pride than shame. “Absolutely sir, ma'am,” she said, darting her head forward in a quick, respectful nod.

“Good,” Seraphina said. “Then allow me to explain. Over the past few weeks the Director has been undercover on my orders. Well, not _undercover_ ,” she added, at Marcos' confused look. Percival had one of the most famous faces in the country to anyone who knew anything about politics, justice or crime; the idea he could go undercover without being recognized eventually was utterly laughable, not unless Polyjuice was involved. “But he has been overseeing one of our own – Goldstein – and following a lead we uncovered concerning Grindelwald's supporters last month. They all appear to have been congregating in New Orleans.”

“And we just figured out why,” Percival said, frankly. “Damiana Rawley, Lady Talon's, and Modesty Barebone. Has Goldstein checked in, yet?” Sera could tell, by the subtle pull of his mouth, that he was incredibly worried and doing his best to hide it.

“No, sir,” Marcos said. She still look confused, but clearly confusion didn't stop her from being able to answer a question from her superiors promptly. “We haven't heard from her in some time. We thought...” Percival waved his hand, impatiently.

“She's on protection detail for Damiana Rawley,” he said. “Have you tracked her down yet? I assume you did that as soon as Lady Talon's was attacked.”

“Some Aurors have been dispatched to the bayou.”

“Were some of those Aurors on the first response team to Lady Talon's?”

“Yes?”

“Get us their names, Marcos,” Seraphina said. A tight feeling was building up in her chest.

As if knowing what she was thinking – and maybe he did – Percival asked, “So that was true? James is at St Vincent's?”

“There was a lot of damage. He probably won't make it through the night,” Seraphina said, frankly. “How was he when you left him?”

“Banged up but fine. Walking on both feet.”

That was not good news. According to reports, Percival was seen Apparating from the grounds right when MACUSA enforcements began to arrive. That meant that James Talon was wounded in the moments following, when the grounds were swarming with the people sent to protect him. The knowledge that he had been attacked by one of her own made her incredulous and angry, but letting her emotions get the better of her would do no one any good. Seraphina closed her eyes. “Marcos,” she said, heavily, “I don't think I need to inform you that we must keep this discussion secret for as long as possible?”

“Of course you don't, ma'am,” Marcos answered, softly. “Is this... is there a leak in the department?”

“Has the thought crossed your mind, too?”

“A lot of us have been thinking it, after what happened last month. But it's been difficult to investigate without direction.”

“We need you to be our eyes and ears in the Auror department now, Seline,” Percival said, earnestly. “Go over everything you've seen and heard in the past three weeks, but especially since I was framed on Flight Street.”

“Yes, sir,” Marcos said, nodding. “I'll go get that list of names and follow up on Rawley now. What do I tell everyone else?”

“Director Graves has refused to cooperate and is to be escorted to a high security cell,” Seraphina said, standing up and away from the table. She leaned forward and slipped the presidential seal into Percival's vest pocket. “Once you have that list you are to come straight to me and those Aurors are to be immediately detained and questioned the minute they step into MACUSA headquarters. At that point we can end this farce and get around to finding Goldstein. Even so, there might be more traitors in the department than we know, so stay alert. As of right now all of your official orders will come from myself or Director Graves. Understood?”

“Absolutely. And Modesty Barebone?”

“I will see to her myself. Escort me to her.”

“Sera.”

She had just been getting to her feet when he said her name, and she looked towards him in surprise. He rarely addressed her so informally in front of anyone else at MACUSA; she was always 'Madame President' at the office.

“Yes?”

“Modesty's files,” he said. “I assume those will have been recovered from Lady Talon's as part of the investigation. Someone should look at them.”

“Of course.”

She started to turn away again, but- “And Madame President?”

“Yes?” she asked, pivoting again, giving him an annoyed look. Marcos was carefully pretending to be deaf.

Percival glared at her. “Don't forget to eat breakfast.”

 

.

 

Queenie was so lonely these days that she looked forward to going to work more than usual because at least in the office there were people she could talk to. Of course, no one could ever be a replacement for Tina, but it was good to break the silence she was so used to at home.

She had the one note from her sister that she reread every night; she had it memorized by now, but just the sight of Tina's distinctive handwriting soothed her.

_Queenie,_

_Can't tell you what's going on but I'm sure you expect that. It has been awful and fantastic. It's what I've dreamed of doing without realizing those dreams were sometimes nightmares. Don't worry about me, though; Graves is suitably terrified of you, I think, and is keeping me safe._

_Can't wait to see you,_

_I love you so much_

_(more than anything)_

_T_

To chase away boredom Queenie had been baking more often, and brought the spoils to the office (even though the other girls complained she was ruining their figures). As she entered MACUSA that morning she had a scuffed golden tin under one arm, holding a collection of chocolate chip cookies and a rather dense fruitcake. She navigated the crowd with ease, able to ignore the thoughts around her for the most part. Being a natural Legilimens was a lot like being at a party, what with all the voices floating around her, except there was more whispering instead of yelling. She actually preferred places with loud and noisy crowds, because that way everything was drowned out. Really, thoughts were most clear to her with eye contact, but that didn't mean she never picked anything up without it.

So as she made her way into the elevator, shifting aside to let others in – this early in the day it was customary to let the elevator fill up before taking off – a few choice thoughts began to make themselves known.

“Graves, really?”

“That's what I heard. Aurors got him right at the Floo Hall.”

Queenie's head snapped around. That _was_ a conversation, right? Unless she was looking directly at someone, she often couldn't tell whether the voices she overheard were spoken aloud or simply floating about in someone's head.

Yes, the two men who had just gotten onto the elevator were talking with each other as the rattling gates were closed. Graves? As in Percival Graves? What was he doing at MACUSA? He was supposed to be taking care of her sister. Tina certainly hadn't come with him, or else the gossip would be involving her name as well – after all, no one had seen her in a month, so her arrival would be startling, too. She continued to listen closely.

“What's his trick?” the one man asked. Queenie looked at the back of his head, where the cheap oil he had used to slick his hair back had streaked lightly down the back of his neck. “Right into MACUSA when there's a warrant out?”

“Well, they're thinking he was planning an attack,” his companion answered, knowingly tapping the side of his nose. “Just got tripped up in security.”

That was when Red, the goblin, let out a bark of laughter. “Who's 'they'?” he asked. “Your pals at the newspaper stand?”

The first man scowled. “What do you know about anyone in Law Enforcement, Red?” he asked.

“A sight more than you, Jeremy. I see more things in this elevator in one day than you could after five years in Broom Transport.”

The man huffed. Queenie narrowed her eyes at the back of his head. Oh, yes, Jeremy, she recognized him. He was that lout who dumped Tina because she 'never made an effort'. He'd said that out loud, not even just thinking it in the safety of his head.

As if sensing the piercing stare, he looked over his shoulder; Queenie transformed her face into a pleasant smile before his eyes landed on her. “Sorry, Miss Goldstein, didn't see you there,” he said, politely. She tried not to grimace as she heard _should've gone for th_ _e_ _sister_ rolling through his head.

She took a deep, calming breath, reminding herself that she shouldn't feel responsible about anyone's thoughts about her. It wasn't her fault a lot of people didn't see the beauty that glowed from Tina; it was the problem of most of the men in New York.

Honestly, Queenie was usually in a better mood than this, but the lack of having Tina around was wearing on her. The other day even Mr Abernathy noticed and had asked her if there was anything wrong or if she was feeling unwell. Since Queenie was pretending that Tina was still at home with her, she couldn't tell him the actual reason, but she had appreciated him asking all the same. It had come from an honest concern for her, which was nice. She'd told him she wasn't sleeping well lately and he'd given her the afternoon off.

(He was actually quite lenient like that with everyone in the office, not just her. Tina once said she felt Abernathy's frustrations stemmed from his own inability to ever properly discipline anyone, ever; Queenie had to admit she was right. After all, despite yelling up and down at Tina, he still couldn't manage to stop her from taking forty-five minute strolls in New York in the middle of the work day.)

“You should be careful, now, Miss,” Jeremy's friend told her, in a frank voice. “That Percival Graves – I mean, last time he was Grindelwald, who knows who he is now?”

“He's not going to break out of custody and tear through the Atrium,” a woman behind Queenie snorted. “Honestly, you two. It's just a rumour anyway, he's probably nowhere near here.”

“No, I heard it from-”

“Wand Permit Office.”

“That's me,” Queenie said cheerfully, and stepped on Jeremy's feet – twice – as she exited the elevator. She hurried over to the two back-to-back desks she normally shared with Tina, setting the tin down on top of all the papers she hadn't managed to get around to the day before. The woman in the elevator had been right, it _was_ just a rumour, one that was floating around MACUSA so loudly that Queenie couldn't help but overhear it. There was only one person who could give her all the details, though, whether or not they may be true.

She was hurriedly taking off her coat when there was a flutter of activity that heralded the approach of her coworkers.

“Cookies again?” Petunia asked with a groan as she took off the tin's lid, before stuffing one unceremoniously in her mouth.

“Hey, any o' you seen Ruthless?” Queenie asked, without preamble. “I heard something pretty juicy in the elevator, wanted to run it past her.”

“Was it about Percival Graves?” Laura asked, eagerly. “I heard coming in that he broke in last night, but they caught him in the Floo Hall.”

“Losing his touch, maybe,” Petunia said, swallowing her mouthful of cookie. “Bet that's why he was put on leave.”

“Or those southern women he's been spending time with turned his brain into spaghetti,” Laura suggested.

He better not have been chasing women around when he was supposed to be looking after Tina, Queenie thought. Then again, that wasn't something she expected from someone as straitlaced as Percival Graves. There had been rumours of a beautiful redhead in his company circulating for the past week or two; privately Queenie had always been pleased every time she heard it.

“So what, they keeping him in a cell or something?” she asked.

“Last I heard,” Petunia said. “Probably in high security, though. I hear he knows spells no one's bothered to learn in centuries, they're so difficult. Remember what they were saying, New Year's Day?”

“I highly doubt he summoned a dragon made out of fire, Petunia, someone would have _seen_ -”

“Hello!” That was Ruthless, looking rosy-cheeked from the brisk January weather. “Good morning! Has anyone started any coffee yet?”

Queenie took a good look at Ruth, skimming her surface thoughts. _Percival Graves_ , she was thinking; she was bubbling with energy, with a story to tell. True or not, she would have more details than anyone else, except for someone high up in the MACUSA food chain. Someone with security clearance, or access to the Law Department. Someone with clout.

The tubing through the office thrummed and a mouse-shaped memo was spat out onto Queenie's desk. It scurried across to her eagerly before diving down in the only empty space on her desk that wasn't covered in sewing notions and candy packets. It unfolded with a snap, showing off the presidential seal.

Hurriedly, Queenie grabbed it and stuffed it into her coat pocket before anyone else noticed. “I've got to powder my nose,” she said, jumping to her feet. The rest of her coworkers gave her surprised looks. “But I was just about to-” Ruth began to protest.

“Urgent!” she trilled, and darted off.

 

“Ah, Miss Goldstein. Sit down. One moment, if you please.”

It had taken several floors and security checkpoints in order to get into the area of MACUSA that housed the president and her aides. The No-Majs had a gigantic, separate house for their President, but MACUSA had no need for such separation. It was not unusual to see Seraphina Picquery in the entry hall, walking down the street, or even visiting offices. But when it came to the work that needed to be kept safe and confidential, it was important to put the checks in place to stop just anyone from wandering in.

Queenie had never visited the presidential offices before, though Tina had told her about them. She was given some very suspicious looks by guards and secretaries alike, but she held the letter summoning her to the president's side, inlaid with a spell that could only have been put there by Picquery herself. So it was that Queenie found herself sitting down in a very lovely office that was, despite it all, not as big or grand as she would have expected. Seraphina Picquery, it seemed, did not bother with trying to impress anyone but her own tastes in decorating.

Queenie desperately wanted to know what was going on, suspecting it had something to do with Tina, but she didn't dare speak. She also did not dare look into the President's mind, though it was easier than usual with her than most others, which was good. Minds were not like pictures on a wall or writing in a book; they were layered and constantly moving. People like the President had very ordered minds, like file cabinets that could not be opened unless directing themselves there. Occlumency was a form of magic that relied on the ability to compartmentalize emotions and thoughts, so those with the skill had a natural affinity for it; using that, a Legilimens could be adequately repelled. Queenie could usually tell who had the potential and training, and who didn't. With such minds Queenie wasn't exactly locked out, but as long as she didn't pry she was treated to a pleasantly blank slate.

And anyway, Tina had always told Queenie that, under no circumstances, was she to pry into the minds of people like the President, the Directors, or Department Heads. The breach of security could be catastrophic. Queenie's status as a natural Legilimens was kept secret, and the only way they could ethically keep it thus was to make sure Queenie wasn't privy to anything related to the safety of the United States.

So Queenie carefully recited nursery rhymes in her head while the President signed a few things, her quill scraping loudly against the parchment in the silent room.

Finally, the President set the quill down. “Now, Miss Goldstein,” she said. “I've called you here today in the hopes you might render the department some service. By now, you might have heard some rumours going around throughout MACUSA.”

“I have, Madame President,” Queenie said, politely.

“Well,” Picquery said. “They're more or less true. That is to say, Percival Graves is currently in our custody.” She held up her hand as Queenie's mouth dropped open to blurt out the obvious question. “He is not a true breaker of the law. Rather that was done to maintain your sister's cover. As to Porpentina, we are currently in the dark and have been unable to track her down, but we have no reason to believe any violence or wrongdoing has occurred. Rather, she appears to have vanished on her own and we are expecting communication from her shortly when it is safe for her to do so. Unfortunately, to tell you any more would require you to have more security clearance than we have already gifted you with.”

While Queenie was trying not to read Picquery, she could tell the President was not lying – or at least, what she said was the best case scenario she was hoping for, while she planned for the worst. It was not comforting, but it was something.

“Maybe she'll try to contact me?” Queenie suggested.

“We have considered that possibility, but that is not why you were called here,” Picquery said. “I have summoned you, Miss Goldstein, for one reason alone: you are trustworthy. Your only ties to this department are your sister, whom your loyalty to is in no question. You have also been vetted in the course of his own investigation by Mr Graves himself. For that, I ask that you transfer that loyalty to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for the time being, and render your abilities in service here.”

“I'm being transferred?”

“Momentarily sidetracked,” Picquery corrected. She folded her hands on her desk and asked, very seriously, “Tell me: how are you with children?”

 

.

 

Alone, Seraphina sat for a moment in her office, looking at the file in her hands. It was bare on the outside but when she opened it she gazed upon endless notes in James Talon's tidy cursive. It was not the familiar writing but the content, however, that made her take pause. Even in reports James' voice was clear and prevalent. He was an observant person, devoted to the upkeep of the home as well as the happiness and healthiness of his children. Though Modesty had been a new arrival, there was a surprising amount in her file. Beginning to read it, she was starting to understand why.

It was a quick read: she knew most of what was recorded. It was the most recent entry, dated the night before, which was the most illuminating.

 

_Tonight, Modesty asked me about Death. Yet again I was faced with the reality of her childhood, which was filled with pain, but it was this question of hers that has caused me to reflect on her time here. Sometimes when Modesty speaks, I feel a shifting in the universe – small, like a breath of wind waving the grass. I wonder if this is the awareness she herself always feels, and her attention helps others to pick up on it as well. I don't think Modesty knows any more about Death than the rest of us, but I feel like she has stood close to it and knows the shape of its cloak. I wonder if she sees it draw near and that is how she knew when to flee, back in New York._

_And so yet again she revealed a startling clarity for the world around her. Her realization of where she is and what that means far outstrips anything that can be harkened to intelligence alone. While she is bright, she is also very aware, and exhibits an ability to understand the events around her even when she may, indeed, not even be in the room where said events are taking place._

_I have not voiced this particular idea of mine to anyone, not even Theresa, though she has picked up on Modesty's peculiarities herself. I am afraid it might be dangerous to reveal anything of the sort until Modesty is older and more secure. Then again, none of us can know just how her abilities will develop – will they stall, or will they continue to grow? Has her abused history stunted her, or did it create an environment in which this magic within her flourished? We won't know until months, perhaps even years, have gone by. However, this must be noted in case of any adoption. I would hate for her to be taken in by a family who decides they no longer want her, should she develop beyond their abilities to care for her._

_Magical children born to No-Majs are of course not the norm, especially in bloodlines where it shows that there has never been any inkling to supernatural ability. Beyond that, seers are rare enough; seers born of non-magical blood, rather than those hailing from clairvoyant bloodlines, are almost unheard of. Yet I can't help but feel certain in recording that Modesty, who along with being an intelligent and rather pleasant young witch, is a true Clairvoyant. How I will be able to support and maintain these abilities of hers, all while doing my best to create a normal environment for her and the other children, is something I will actively work towards in the coming months and years. Children are our future, even the ones who have been thrown away by their families. In fact, especially them._

_Perhaps, soon, she will understand what is happening and she will approach me, but in the end I feel I may have to breach the topic with her. She might already know. Again, her abilities are still in question, but I feel quite certain of my theory, based on what I have seen._

_What type of seer will she be? What will she predict? Will she only see flashes of what may come or will she produce prophesies? Whatever she wants, all of us around her must strive to_

 

That was all that had been written. Seraphina closed the folder. For a moment, she did not want to get up from her chair, feeling too heavy with the knowledge of what she had just read. A seer was a valuable commodity, as chaotic as they may be, a soft voice whispered in her mind. _Imagine the things you could do with a seer, especially one so young and pliable..._

She shook her head, dislodging the thought, and a flare of anger grew in her chest. She had been in the political game too long, she knew, that her mind had allowed her to entertain such a thought for even a moment. As always she would devote herself to pursuing the path of righteousness, not ease.

Seraphina and her secretaries had been fine looking after Modesty earlier in the morning; after all, the girl was exhausted, and had spent most of her time sleeping on a couch in the presidential offices, securely tucked under a blanket. But as the office had begun to wake, so had Modesty, and Seraphina had needed to divide her attention with the fact that soon, hopefully, they would be able to let Percival out of that damn cell.

Modesty's introduction to her new caretaker had gone well. At that moment, Queenie Goldstein was sitting with her in a protected room, drinking milk, eating cookies, and drawing. Goldstein had an ease with children that came naturally, something Seraphina had never been able to replicate, which was good. In any case, Modesty had told her that Percival had said she could trust her and the Goldsteins and no one else, making Queenie the best bet for a babysitter.

Seraphina sighed and rubbed her chin with the back of her hand. She could hear the clock on her wall ticking away. Any moment, the Aurors suspected of betraying MACUSA would be brought in. Any moment, this gem of silence would be taken from her and she would be thrust forward into the unshod, dirty world she had sworn to do her utmost to protect during her election in 1920 and her re-election in 1924.

“The path of righteousness, not of ease,” she reminded herself, aloud.

She stared at the clock. Her stomach rumbled, but she ignored it, feeling tense and nauseated. The clock reminded her of James Talon and his unfinished sentence. Then, somewhere out in the endless levels and rooms and corridors of MACUSA, there was a soft vibration. Seraphina, so attuned to the building she practically called home, knew it was not anything good.

_Here we go_ , she thought, as her door burst open.

Marcos sped in, bleeding from a cut on her cheek. “Madame President,” she said, “We've begun lockdown procedures. I highly suggest we evacuate you to-”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Seraphina said, getting to her feet. As she did so she dashed off a quick, presidential missive, signing it and tapping it with her wand. It immediately folded into a mouse and shot off in the direction of the holding cells. “Keep by my side, Marcos. I need a bodyguard while there are traitors running loose, and Director Graves is about to be rather preoccupied.”


	22. the queen's flight

The ground was raw and rough on her feet, which had started to grow soft from carpeted floors and new socks. Still she walked. There was a chill in the air and the buildings were tall and dark around her, but they were flimsy shadows compared to the real horrors that had dogged her waking life: angry brick houses, sharp Art Deco windows, the cold frame of the church.

The ground, however, was warm, and she followed it as if it were a pathway. There was a delicious scent in the air, like sugar melting on her tongue, but Modesty refused to be tricked. Something was creeping along in the world and she was standing beside it, keeping pace.

Turning the corner the ground swelled upwards into a pristine grove of manicured bushes and thick, springy grass. There were two women there, dancing, their skirts billowing raggedly about their legs. It was a macabre dance, reminding her of the wild ways women would cavort in the street to the tune of a cornet, or burrowed in the clubs her mother claimed were dens of sin. But here it was jagged and there was no joy in it, only danger.

Modesty recognized one of the women. She had a shock of curly red hair but still that face, plain and smooth, tense with angry concentration, was unmistakable: the woman in the long coat who had stepped between her brother and her mother, holding a slim piece of wood in her hand from which Modesty’s dreams and fascinations seemed to become real all at once. A woman who had revealed to Modesty a truth she had always known in her bones but wanted to deny, fearful of the evil her mother had claimed: magic was real. Was Modesty as wicked? Were they all wicked?

The other woman Modesty did not know, for she had no face but a grinning skull, its jaw flapping about in laughter, or rage. The sugary scent in the wind seemed stronger.

Frightened, suddenly, Modesty turned away and she was in a room of staircases. The President, the real President, a tall and wonderful and beautiful and kind woman – not at all like the brutes and fools her mother claimed so many Negroes were – was bending over the limp form of Mr Graves. “Wake up, damn you!” she shouted, and slapped him round the face. The shapes of other people flickered around them, most of them disembodied and shadowy but some with faces leering out from the darkness.

Someone grabbed her wrist and Modesty looked up to see Mr James. Dead roses were twined in his curly hair, and his hands were covered in blood. “Wake up,” he urged. “Things have gone terribly wrong.”

Modesty felt a struggle within her, something trying to burst to the surface. “I can’t,” she cried. “It’s too hard.”

“You have to,” he said.

“I can’t-”

“Wake up, damn you!” The President shouted.

Someone was screaming, the sound pushing against her ears. She felt like she was underwater because it was so oddly distant but seemed to press in on all sides, it was getting in her eyes and in her nose, and when she opened her mouth it poured down her throat.

“Modesty!” A woman’s voice.

The room was full of a bright buttery light, like the sun, even though there were no real windows. Miss Goldstein was leaning over her, so pale the cosmetics on her face stood out garishly. “Oh honey!” she was crying out, and put her soft hands on Modesty’s face. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”

She registered the details of the room, familiar because she had been sitting there on the small couch before she had drifted off to sleep again. She was in the presidential offices. Madame Picquery’s face shone from a portrait on the wall, there were soft furnishings and vases of flowers and tables of hot tea and cold milk, and cookies and cakes. It was the room for all the women working in the department to relax in or take their lunch, the President had explained to her. “Miss Goldstein will watch over you now,” she had said. “Let us know if you need anything.” There had been two guards posted at the door.

She registered, too, the fact that the screams Modesty heard were her own, and did her best to swallow them down. “Miss Goldstein?” she asked, weakly. She looked over at the doorway, but the guards were gone. Miss Goldstein followed her gaze with her own.

“They left,” she said. Her face was so like the woman’s in her dream, yet so different. _There are two_. “Something is happening. But I’ll watch over you.”

And Modesty began to cry. Not because she was scared, though she was, but because after so many dark and shadowy dreams, waking days full of sharp edges, and that sense of something just out of her reach that would still at times wrap its wings about her and hold her close, it had finally happened.

She had spoken to the dead. Mr James was gone and she could still feel the ghost of his hand on her wrist, sticky with blood. She was alone, or was she? She had only known him a month, but she knew he would never have left her on her own. He would make sure she was taken care of. If only she could find that path, warm under her bare feet, and follow it…

Miss Goldstein was wiping the tears from Modesty’s face. “There’s nothing to be frightened of,” she soothed, with the strength and assurance of all adults who know too little, too late.

But Modesty could not stop crying. _Death has come, Death is here_ , she wanted to shout, but the words would not leave her throat. She clutched at the woman’s hands and stared up into her face with all the bravery she could muster.

Miss Goldstein’s lovely face suddenly got a lot paler and she stared deep into Modesty’s eyes, not like any other adult had ever done before. “Oh, no,” she said. “A bad dream, honey… it must have been a bad dream…”

“She had no face, only bones,” Modesty sobbed.

And then Miss Goldstein did a curious thing: something flinched across her face and in her gaze, and Modesty felt that this adult not only knew, but believed.

 

.

 

The high security cells were not much different from the low-security ones, in terms of structural shape. The difference was in the spellwork laid into the bars. Percival had rarely had occasion to inspect them from the inside, seeing as that had never been his job, nor had he ever been imprisoned within them. But with little else to do until everything was sorted out, he took his time admiring the spells, barely visible as they glinted along the bars and against the concrete of the Floor. Experimentally he even tried a few pushes of wandless magic, but there was barely a shift in the air. He truly would have to wait until Seraphina had him freed, or else he wasn't going anywhere.

When he had finished with his inspection, he began to pace, turning the day's events over in his mind. They didn't know how many traitors were present in MACUSA. Anyone who might have sold or accidentally slipped secrets to Grindelwald would be dealt with in time; once this was over he foresaw a major overhaul and re-vetting of anyone in high-security roles. What they needed to do right away, though, was smoke out whoever had been the ones to betray him.

Now that he thought about it, it made quite a bit more sense. Percival himself could not have been the be-all-end-all weak link in MACUSA; being kidnapped and impersonated had been Grindelwald's last move in an overarching scheme to penetrate the government. The issue was discovering who had all been responsible in feeding Grindelwald information about all of Percival's habits and movements.

Unfortunately, the only way to do anything now was force the situation to a head. Detaining the suspected Aurors would do that; if there were betrayals from anyone else who was not in the group, that would be the signal for them to flee.

So all he could do was wait. As time inched by and he could sense the nighttime slowly giving way to day, he counted his steps and ran through as many scenarios of the coming drama as he could. They all ended in his leaving immediately to track down Tina.

There was a violent movement in an upper level; it was more a gut feeling than anything else, though he did pick up a faint vibration. It was not happening anywhere near the interrogation rooms, by his guess, which was a bad sign,

Voices echoed down the long hallways.

“Are you _insane_?”

“It's a presidential missive, Abigail. We can't just ignore it.”

His jailors appeared; the woman looking terrified, the man grim with a memo crunched up in his fist.

“Mr Graves,” he greeted, pulling out his wand. “I am going to let you out.”

“Don't!” Abigail hissed, drawing her own wand, as if to attack her coworker.

She yelped as suddenly Percival stuck his hand out between the bars, brandishing the signet ring below her nose. “Will this help?” he asked. He was not about to let some squabbling jailors waste time.

The two white-clad coworkers looked at each other.

“Open it up,” the woman said, with a nod.

 

At his request they escorted him towards Major Crimes, just in case he came across any difficulties with his new freedom. Percival stepped quickly, feeling the pressure of knowing there was a firefight happening within the building and he had yet to retrieve his wand. While he could do a great many things without a wand that most of his peers couldn't, he was not about to walk unarmed into battle.

Thankfully, Seraphina had sent copies of the memo out throughout MACUSA; he could still see a few of them scurrying all throughout, jumping out of the transport tubing and skittering under gaps in doors. “What does it say, exactly?” he asked, curiously.

“It said you have received a full pardon and are reinstated as both Head of the Law Department and Director of Security,” Abigail answered, promptly. She seemed quite ready to be friendly with him, now that she had seen the seal. “It seemed unlikely, but...”

He didn't bother to point out that the memo was, essentially, a lie – he had never committed any crime beyond those that were incidental to his mission, but explaining that was likely too much for Seraphina to dash off in a quick moment (another sign things were not going as smoothly as they hoped). A forced pardon from her own hand at least meant that Percival could move freely throughout MACUSA without resistance. They'd worry about his reputation later.

Major Crimes was, expectedly, empty. Everyone was off doing their jobs. Percival wove his way through the desks and cabinets until he ended up at the evidence lockers.

He ran his hands over the lockers – they would have stored his things in one of the narrow metal drawers, since they didn't take much from him when he arrived. He would have no trouble opening them – he had clearance for every single cupboard and cubby in Major Crimes.

There was only a soft flutter of paper that told him that someone besides himself and the jailors were there – a movement that sent a puff of air across a desk, shifting some paperwork. Percival looked up to see Sebastian Vidal, wand at the ready.

Percival froze, and for a moment the two men did nothing but stare at each other. Was Vidal the traitor? If he was, then Percival’s jailors needed to go, now, before they got caught in the fray.

But then Vidal made a small motion with his wand, though it was still aimed rather threateningly at Percival’s chest. “Go ahead, sir,” he said, calmly.

“Perhaps you can tell me which one,” Percival responded. “Save some time.”

“Upper left.”

Wary, feeling the danger that was turning away from Vidal but having no other choice, he found the handle and tugged. It stuck.

He felt the tension in the room rise rapidly.

With a curse he gave it a jiggle and then the cabinet jumped open. “We need to fix these damn things,” he said, grabbing his wand.

Looking relieved, Vidal lowered his wand. If Percival was truly an outlaw, he would not have been able to open the lockers, and they all knew that. “That is a relief,” he said. “I really didn’t want to believe it.”

Percival put on his watch and the ring Tina gave him. “Have you begun lockdown yet?”

“We've started lockdown procedures on floors six and seven,” Vidal said. “We have the incident contained-”

“Lock down the entire building,” Percival ordered. Sebastian raised his eyebrows, but nodded.

“Yes, sir. No one in or out?”

“No one out. Let whoever wants to come in, come in,” Percival said, grimly. “See to it that all of our employees are out of harm's way. Locate any and all civilians and keep them together as well. I suggest,” he added, turning to his jailors, who were starting to wear expressions stating they understood how out of place they were, “you get back to your department and make sure everyone complies with procedure.”

“Of course, Mr Graves.”

“Sir,” Vidal said, once they were gone, “I understand it’s probably a long story, but. What is this about?”

“We’re smoking out some traitors,” Percival said, frankly, because Vidal was right: the story was far too long as it was. “I assume six and seven is where you were escorting the Aurors who had returned from Louisiana?”

“Yes. Is it them?”

“Could be any one of them. But it could be any one of us, as well. Go down and monitor the situation. If you see Marcos, you can trust her to be on your side.”

“And where are you going, sir?”

Percival just shook his head and headed towards the elevator. “I’ll see you soon, Vidal.”

There were three other people in the elevator who all crushed to one side to avoid him, but Red, who was on shift, barely flickered an eyelid. “Presidential offices,” he said, before the sirens began to blare out. Vidal had set off the alarm, and lockdown had begun. “Quickly, please. It’s priority.”

There was a chance that, with the possibility of their cover blown – or at least the fact it was no longer entirely safe to operate – the traitors would still make a grab for Modesty. He was certain Seraphina would have known that and kept her securely somewhere in her offices. He would have informed Vidal, but the unfortunate reality was that the less anyone knew about Modesty’s part in Grindelwald’s plans, the better.

Stepping out into the presidential offices, it was quiet but not as quiet as the other departments would be. Nothing could truly _stop_ here, but almost every door he walked by was firmly shut and sealed, or in the process of it. Now, where would Sera have put Modesty?

His question was answered far more quickly and simply than he had expected. Taking a route down one of the hallways, he found Seraphina and Marcos exiting from a rather lavish-looking breakroom.

“Madame President,” he said, politely but urgently. “As your Director, I highly advise you leave the premises.”

Seraphina and Marcos had clearly arrived just before him, from the look of anger on the President’s face. “I had guards!” she fumed at Percival, completely ignoring his suggestion. “I gave them explicit orders not to leave!”

He looked into the room. At just a glance he could tell there was no sign of any struggle. “They wouldn’t have escorted them elsewhere due to lockdown, would they?”

“The procedures in this area are quite clear,” Marcos said, shaking her head, which was what Percival had figured, anyway, from the number of closed doors he had walked by. “Everyone seals themselves in.”

“So the guards left to help,” Percival said. “Now where are Modesty and Miss Goldstein?”

“They might have been taken,” Marcos said, grimly. “If it was by one of our own acting under your authority, there wouldn’t have been a struggle.”

“No.” Seraphina was frank. “I specifically told Miss Goldstein to only obey orders from myself, Mr Graves or you.”

“Then she left with Modesty for some other reason,” Marcos reasoned. “Herself and Modesty’s safety, we can assume, I think. So where are they now?”

Percival looked away from the room and down the hallways. “Floo Hall first, Marcos, then we’ll go from there.”

 

.

 

Ever since she was a child, people had presented their thoughts to Queenie, but it was not just their thoughts but the _way_ that they thought which revealed so much about them. Queenie, though admittedly young, had figured she had come across all the types of minds there were to know. Her first impression of Modesty had suggested such.

Now Queenie was hurrying along, hand in hand with the young girl, her own mind swimming with thoughts and images that chilled her to the bone and held within them such unreal reality she didn’t know what to do with them. But she believed in them, as much as she could believe in anything.

Death had come to MACUSA. Queenie had done some dangerous things over the past month, sure, but Modesty’s fear had her heart pounding. The President herself had impressed upon Queenie the importance of Modesty’s safety, and though she wondered why, she didn’t need the orders of MACUSA to tell her to keep an eight-year-old safe. If they kept moving, she hoped it would keep them ahead of the danger.

The sirens that began to blare throughout the building, however, told her that was going to be more difficult than ever.

“In here,” Queenie said, starting to go left; but Modesty dug her feet in.

“No!” she cried.

“We’ve got to go into lockdown!”

“It’s not safe,” Modesty said. “ _We’re_ not safe.”

Queenie pursed her lips in consternation, but she understood. The real danger floated all about them; going near others would simply put more innocent lives in harm’s way. “Someone might be looking for you?” she asked. “Then let’s go somewhere else.”

The Floo Hall was the best bet, but would it still be usable? And where was it, at least in relation to where they were standing now? Damn it, the building was confusing and Queenie only knew the sections she worked in. She turned, bringing Modesty with her as they retraced some of their steps, trying to find the last sign that pointed to the elevators.

“So what,” Queenie said as they hurried along, figuring conversation might help calm the both of them down. “You can see the future? Or something?”

“I don’t know,” Modesty admitted. “I just feel things, or dream things. I don’t know what it means. Or if it ever means something.”

Queenie squeezed the girl’s hand. How strange and unexpected to have found, suddenly, a kindred soul in an eight-year-old. “It can be hard to tell what comes from you and elsewhere, sometimes,” she said. “But this all seems real to me, honey.”

“Miss Goldstein?”

“Call me Queenie.”

“Where are we going?”

“Floo Hall,” she said. “Big fireplaces to take us wherever we want to go. Where do you want to go?”

“I want to see Mr James,” she said.

Queenie didn’t pause. “Mr James is dead, honey, you said it yourself,” she reminded her, voice slow and gentle, even as her heels clicked along at a rapid beat.

“I know.”

Queenie just nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go see him, then.”

She managed to get her bearings, finally – difficult with the panic all around her and the sirens – but upon arriving at the Floo Hall she grimaced. The fireplaces were all cold, now, and no spell she tried would light them up again.

Outside, then, onto the streets with the No-Majs. Surely the enforcement of the Rappaport Law would allow the two of them to blend in with the crowd? It was late morning and she knew the streets would be busy. “Change of plans,” she said, brightly, trying not to let the panic enter her voice.

Exiting the Floo Hall, she found she was not the only MACUSA employee with ideas of leaving. She followed the trickle of people, which became a veritable stream as they entered the main antechamber to MACUSA. A huge, multilevel area, with layers of staircases and endless shops and boutiques and newsstands, but the crowd was large enough that it easily filled it up.

Mostly it was visitors and other civilians, sitting or standing about, talking with serious voices and faces. There were enforcers, guards and even obliviators walking around, maintaining calm. There were Aurors, too, keeping an eye on things, but not as many as she would have expected.

But what really took her attention was the fact that the main doors were firmly shut, locked, and chained. Still, Queenie had to try. Feeling like a sitting duck so out in the open, with the sky-high ceiling looming above her, she led Modesty down the wide steps and towards the front doors.

Damn it: the man at the door was Sam. Men like him were easy to threaten and hoodwink, but usually never more than once. She'd already put the fear of God in him by threatening him about Cecily, so if he didn't bow to her now she wasn't about to have any more luck with him.

“Hey Queenie,” he said, looking wary, before he noticed Modesty. “Huh. Who's this?”

“My cousin,” she answered. When it came to lying Queenie had never been all that good at it – that was more in Tina's domain – but she could think quickly on her feet when the need arose. “She's not feeling too well.”

“That's too bad,” he said, and she could tell he meant it. “But orders are orders. We have to keep everyone in here safe. We're not even sure what it's all about just yet. Why don't you go ask one of the guards to find you a nurse and then you can take care of it all here, and maybe by then all of this will be sorted out.”

The way she smiled, tilted her head, dressed, spoke – things came together that made it seem like men talked down to her more than any other woman she knew. Just because she experienced it often, though, didn't mean she liked it. “I know,” she said. “But this is serious. She's... she's never sick.”

Sam frowned and looked down at Modesty, who was doing a good job of attempting to hide behind Queenie's skirts, as if she were too shy and too ill to tolerate observation. “I can't just let you out, Queenie,” he said. “That No-Maj was one thing, but this is different.”

“We gotta _go_ , though,” Queenie said, before adding, “President's orders.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You got a letter that says so?”

She cursed internally. “Look, Sam-”

“What's going on here?”

Queenie turned on her heel and saw, descending the stairs, one of Tina's coworkers. Nesbitt was a tall man, dark-haired and handsome, and about Queenie's age. He had been bothering Tina for years to let him ask Queenie out on a date, but Tina had never relented; despite that, she had always spoken warmly of him.

“ _Miss Goldstein_ , here, is trying to leave,” Sam said, giving Queenie a look.

“Why?” Nesbitt asked, puzzled. Perhaps he expected the sister of an Auror to be more understanding of lockdown procedures than most. “It's safer in here, I assure you, Queenie.”

“She says it's by order of the President,” Sam scoffed.

Nesbitt frowned. “What?”

“Well,” Queenie said, desperately hoping you didn't get arrested for lying about the specifics of what the President may or may not have told you in confidence. “Not exactly.” Sam snorted.

Suddenly, Modesty squeezed her hand very, very tightly. Queenie glanced down at the girl. “Yeah, honey?”

“Let's go,” Modesty whispered.

“The kid's sick, Mr Nesbitt,” Sam was saying.

Queenie looked up to see Nesbitt considering Modesty. Nothing in his face had changed to hint at anything other than the mild concern anyone else would have, when told a child was sick. But the truth was clear when Nesbitt met Queenie's gaze, those thoughts unfolding in front of her. And his face, too, was familiar in more ways than one: she had seen a flicker of his profile in Modesty's dream, leering out from the crowd...

Suddenly, Queenie laughed, hoping the sound wasn't too fake. “Gosh, Sam, I'm so sorry,” she said. “Looks like she was fibbing. I think she's just scared of all the people around.”

Now that Queenie had changed tack, Sam appeared to soften to a more understanding point of view. “Hey, Queenie, it's okay,” he said. “Kid's can be tricky, my sister's kid drives me up the wall whenever I watch him.”

“I don't know,” Nesbitt said. He was considering Queenie very seriously. “You mentioned the President. Do you really need to leave, Miss Goldstein? I can authorize that.”

“It's okay. I think we just need to find somewhere quiet,” Queenie said. Her nerves screamed at her to run but she made herself give Sam a parting smile before stepping away, bringing Modesty with her. “Thanks for your help, Sam.”

“Hey, no problem, Queenie.”

“Miss Goldstein-”

Queenie turned to the side to slip between the shoulders of two burly, arguing men, dragging Modesty with her. They had to get away, fast as they could. Modesty's hand was squeezing hers almost to the point of pain but Queenie barely noticed.

“I've got you,” Queenie said to Modesty.

Going up the stairs was a lot like fighting her way upstream as people were mostly walking down, and not pleased with her going against the grain. She struggled upwards, shouting 'Excuse me!' at the top of her voice. Then she was tugged backwards.

It was Modesty; while still clutching at Queenie's hand, Nesbitt had appeared, grabbing the back of her coat and halting their progress upwards. “Steady now, Miss Goldstein, I'm just trying to help!”

Modesty started to scream. “Everyone stay calm!” someone shouted, as heads turned and voices were raised and the consternation in the hall raised to a fever pitch.

Queenie had, for a moment, the strangest thought. It was a memory from her third year at Ilvermorny, when she heard Isabell Motts refer to Tina as 'the ugly orphan' out in the courtyard. Queenie had split the other girl's lip open with her fist, pulled out a handful of her hair and shoved dirt in her mouth before one of the teachers was able to pull her off.

Over the many years where her older sister had been her only friend, there had been a lot of fights between them – some playful, some serious. Tina usually won. “Never underestimate the element of surprise,” she would tell Queenie.

Queenie and Modesty continued to clutch at each other, and Nesbitt continued to pull at the back of the little girl's coat. “It'll be safer if you come with me!” he was shouting. Queenie looked down at him. They were at the wrong angle for her to punch him as she had punched Isabell Motts, and he was still holding on to Modesty.

Queenie used one hand to hike up her skirt to free her legs, and planted her heel against Nesbitt's shoulder. Holding on to Modesty for dear life she kicked out. There was the faint sound of Modesty's coat tearing, but mostly shouting as Nesbit teetered and fell back down the stairs, colliding with several other men and women.

Turning, Queenie and Modesty began to run, and this time she was not polite about it, shoving people out of her way as best she could. Nesbitt was screaming 'get her!' but there appeared to be some confusion as to who he was shouting for or at, because she managed to shove by a puzzled guard who looked like she wasn't sure whether to hinder or help.

“Stop!”

They just needed to get lost in the crowd...

“Stop! Get back! _Confring_ _o_!”

The ground shook, the sound of stone and wood cracking pierced her eardrums, and Queenie threw herself and Modesty down onto the landing of the stairs just in time as a chunk of banister hurtled by.

Then, the entire antechamber was full of screaming and crying. Queenie pulled Modesty close to protect her from any debris, but that seemed to be the only explosion to rock the hall just then. She desperately wanted to curl into a ball and close her eyes, but she knew she could not. She had to get up, _to run_ , and she needed to take Modesty to a place of safety.

She fought her way to her feet, drawing her wand. “ _Expelliarmus_ ,” she yelled, throwing the spell over her shoulder, but she only ended up relieving an old gentleman of his wand. She couldn't see Nesbitt anywhere, but she was sure he could see her.

Other men and women were converging, fighting their way through civilians – the guards and enforcers, wands drawn and faces taut with worry. Of course they couldn't know what was happening, and what could she do about it? She wouldn't know which ones to trust until it was too late...

There was a flicker of movement ahead of her; it was Nesbitt coalescing before her. Of course, Aurors could Apparate inside of MACUSA.

“Give her to me,” Nesbitt snarled.

Queenie shrank back, but her hold on her wand or Modesty did not waver. “No,” she said.

“Give her to me, and I'll let you go. If you don't, I will kill you.”

Modesty gave a strangled sob but Queenie only drew the girl further back behind her, shielding her. _Death is coming_ , Modesty had said. But Queenie didn't care. She knew what was right and wrong, even if it went against the grain of the law, and even if it put her own life in danger.

“Very well,” Nesbitt said.

Queenie felt something knock into her, but it wasn’t a spell, it was a body checking itself against her shoulder. She sprawled to the side, catching herself before she slammed against the ground, and pulled Modesty with her. She looked up to see Percival Graves himself crashing into Nesbitt, and the whole hall filling with leather-coated Aurors, screaming, shouting, beams of light and the hiss of spells. She rolled, putting herself over Modesty, shielding her.

“It's going to be just fine,” she said, as calmly as she could while chaos erupted all around them.

 

.

 

The dark world before his eyes was starting to come to life in splotches of colour, swimming about and morphing into something solid, with edges and lines. For a moment he had no identity. There was no memory, not even an awareness of his own existence, just a floating sense of nothingness in the back of his head. When he sucked in a breath it felt like the first time he had ever tasted air.

His cheek tingled, and he started to recognize the face hovering above his.

“Are you hitting me?” he mumbled, putting a hand to his face.

“I was,” Seraphina said, looking very pale.

“Why?”

“Because you were lying on the floor and unconscious,” she answered. “Now you’re only experiencing one of those things. Can you stand?”

Suddenly it was as if all his senses had never been gone. Voices, colours, smells, all of them were present. He felt cold and clammy, but still he held out his hand, and Seraphina took it in her own and helped haul him upright. She had help; he felt hands on his back and shoulders, keeping him steady. All around them teemed Aurors, enforcers, obliviators, guards, and any other MACUSA employee trying to get a look at what had happened before being hurried away.

His thoughts flickered. Nesbitt. The fight. “Where’s Modesty?” he asked, turning sharply on his heel, which he discovered to be unwise. His centre of gravity shifted and he stumbled to the side, almost blacking out again.

“Percival!” Seraphina shouted, in a rare show of her nerves.

“Whoah, sir!” Marcos pushed forward through the scattered crowd and grabbed his shoulder. “Easy, now.”

“I’m here,” said a voice.

He looked down to see Modesty, who reached out to take his hand. Her own felt warm and alive, which relieved him more than he understood at that moment. “Are you alright, Mr Graves?” she asked.

He thought he was going to pass out again, or perhaps vomit, or both, and he could tell from the way Seraphina had been looking at him that she hadn’t been entirely certain he would wake up. Still when he said, “Yes,” he found he wasn’t lying.

Miss Goldstein was quite alright as well; she was sitting a little ways away with a blanket around her shoulders and three men fawning over her. Still when he looked he saw her ignoring them and considering him with shrewd eyes that reminded him uncannily of her sister.

Despite all the noise, there was a distinct silence he heard, as well. “You called off the lockdown?” he asked, noting the lack of sirens.

“Nesbitt and Horace have already been taken away,” Marcos said, and Percival flinched. “And everything else has been contained.”

“Horace?” he asked.

“I know,” she sighed. It wasn’t that any of them cared more for Horace than Nesbitt; actually, Horace was distinctly less likeable. But Nesbitt had only been an Auror for three years, as opposed to Horace’s twenty-three. Grindelwald’s claws had sunk deep. “I’m sorry, sir. I should have been watching your back.”

“You were watching the President,” he said, brushing her apology away. “Directors are more easily replaced.”

“But we’d still like to avoid that,” Seraphina said, sharply inserting herself into the conversation. “Marcos, please escort Miss Goldstein, Miss Barebone and Mr Graves to St Vincent’s for medical attention.”

“Yes, ma'a-”

“Like Hell,” Percival objected. That’s when he remembered Modesty was standing beside him, still holding his hand, and he cast a vaguely apologetic look down at her. To his surprise, she was smiling at him, as if amused.

Seraphina’s expression was going a bit dark. “You were just hit by something rough, and we don’t know what it’s done to you,” she pointed out, threateningly calm. “Why, your skin could fall off any second. And when was the last time you slept? I could go on.”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“You look like a corpse!” she snapped.

He narrowed his eyes. He could feel the countless gazes upon the both of them, and he knew Seraphina sensed it, too. He was fully prepared to embark on a full-scale argument with her, audience be damned; the ball was in her court, now, on whether or not to make a scene.

Apparently, her composure decided to win out. “What do you intend to do instead?” she asked, acidly.

“Go to Louisiana,” he replied. When she didn't respond immediately, he knew his gut instinct had been right: they hadn't found Tina at the Rawley's, had yet to track her down at all.

Sera took a step closer, sparing a glance downward at Modesty. For a moment her mouth turned into an apologetic grimace at the girl, before rearranging itself back into a scowl just for him. “You and I will have words when we get back,” she said, frankly, before turning away. “Marcos, please escort Miss Goldstein and Miss Barebone to St Vincent’s, and then make your way to New Orleans. Mr Graves, if you could accompany her on those tasks, that would be appreciated. Vidal, come with me. The day is far from over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello fam! Sorry this took forever, I've not only been working like a crazy person but also had a pretty nasty bit of writer's block. Of course the only way to bust through a block is by writing, but that's where we cycle back to the part where I have no time, shew. Also I'm getting ready to move! So! Yay!  
> Anyway enough about me, here are some notes on the chapter:  
> Some of the specifics of the duelling and the lockdown events will be explored later, but I didn't much feel like bothering with it just at this moment. Mostly I wanted to keep focus on the important bits: Queenie's flight with Modesty, her stand against Nesbitt, and Percival's brush with danger that connected up to Modesty's vision.  
> Queenie's memory of her childhood fight is part of a long backstory I have that Queenie and Tina were just utter ruffians with each other when growing up. I really love the idea of them being so scrappy and then kind of smoothing out into strong young women who take no guff from anyone. I highly doubt that in a 1920s climate where magic is the common form of defense that Aurors are actually taught to fight hand-to-hand. Hence Tina and Queenie with their childhood wrestling, and Percival with a background of engaging in, ahem, illegal boxing matches.  
> Finally, the word 'Negro' makes me flinch, BUT historical accuracy and that shit.
> 
> So I've been crazy busy and life has been eating me alive, so I want you all to know how much all of your comments, feedback, and kudos mean to me. Anyone who has ever written a long story before knows how important it is to know it is actually being read and enjoyed; it's a huge part of what helps us to keep going and stay on track. This is honestly the longest piece of fanfic I have ever written and I never could have made it this far without you the readers. It's crazy to think I started writing this just because I got an itch to try my hand at this pairing, and throw in a lil voodoo and New Orleans for good measure. Welp, colour me surprised.  
> Anyway, thank you and I adore you all for your reading and your patience. <3


	23. the calm, the storm

Veronique was on her third cigarette, by Tina’s last count. She wasn’t really smoking it; mostly she sat, still and motionless, letting the cylinder of ash grow longer and longer until it threatened to scatter all over the table. Then she would tap it into the ashtray, bring it to her lips to take a long drag, and start the process all over again.

Tina said nothing. Veronique’s mental state could not be her concern unless it began to infringe on her work, and in that regard the other woman had kept her unsteadiness mostly under wraps. She was made of solid stuff, the type of steel that MACUSA looked for when they took applicants for Law Enforcement. 

Tina appreciated that she was, for the moment, on her side.

The apartment they had taken refuge in would not have been Tina’s first choice, but she had to admit that was what made it somewhat ingenious. It was the living space of a woman named Laura Fleming, a young witch with straw-coloured hair and a freckled face who flirted dangerously with the law and the criminal underworld by selling her body strictly to No-Maj clientele.

“She makes more money from them than she ever would serving coffees or peddling dresses on Flight Street,” Veronique had said, shrugging. “She just has to steer well clear of the gangs, the obliviators, the police… well, of everyone, I suppose.”

As a result Tina found herself in an apartment so secure, physically and magically, that she had rarely come across such a thing before. The spells used made the place virtually impossible to be found by uninvited No-Majs, and easily overlooked by the majority of MACUSA. Not only that, Veronique told her that Laura practiced her trade in a rented room in a different neighbourhood, while this apartment was mostly where she slept, so it was difficult tracking her there in the first place.

She was sleeping now in the bedroom, having only awakened for a moment to let them in and mumble a greeting to Veronique before going back to sleep. “You’re not going to arrest her, are you?” Veronique had asked, only half-joking, when she had revealed the reason behind Laura’s rather secure location.

“I have more important things to think about than Rappaport,” Tina had replied.

It was a nice place. There was an attached bathroom in the apartment that Tina was able to shower in, washing off the murky film of the swamp and lathering herself all over with lavender soap. She changed into some clothing of Laura’s – “She won’t mind, she never minds,” Veronique said dismissively – which were a little too short on Tina but would be serviceable for the time being. “That’s a scandalously short skirt, Ms Moon.”

Geneva was gone, having headed towards MACUSA’s New Orleans offices. If they were being watched, Tina didn’t want her status as an Auror being outed. In the meantime Veronique had smoked and drunk coffee and talked to Tina all about Tobias Mope’s plotting while the angel-faced prostitute continued to sleep in the next room.

Tina’s voodoo doll was sitting on the kitchen counter. Tina had wiped the dirt from it as carefully and lovingly as she could and, at Veronique’s directions, made sure it was ‘comfortable’ by arranging it next to a vase of fresh cut flowers. “They need to be treated with the utmost respect,” Veronique said, “as you would treat yourself.” It reminded Tina very strongly of little girls who played with dolls.

The voodoo doll for Percival was, as it turned out, a way for Grindelwald to clean up the mess he was leaving behind him; that was before Newt arrived and threw a wrench in his plans. “Apparently, once he had that Obscurial, he was going to release Graves and set him on the President,” Veronique said, shaking her head as Tina tried, yet again, to get her to eat something. “Whether he managed to assassinate her or not wouldn’t have mattered, it would be an automatic death sentence anyway, no questions asked. If he succeeded then Grindelwald would have at least upset American politics, if he failed then all evidence still would have been wiped out with Percival Graves.”

“So Tobias tried to use it last night,” Tina said.

“Well, he saw Graves at Lady Talon’s,” Veronique said, shrugging. “He knew he hadn’t died from the gunshot and that he’d figured out the plan to kidnap Modesty Barebone. Tobias’ source told him that Percival was taken to MACUSA headquarters, so there was no better time for an assassination attempt, surrounded by Aurors. Only you were the one who got the impulse to kill, I assume.”

“I was lucky enough to have been unable to Apparate at the time.”

“Lucky indeed.” Veronique exhaled twin streams of smoke from her nostrils, like a slumbering dragon. “So, have you ever met this Barebone girl?”

“I haven’t,” Tina admitted. “Not really. In passing.”

Veronique sighed and crushed out the stub of her cigarette. “Poor child,” she said. “I’ve never been one for children, not children of my own, anyway. But it hurts my heart when I think of the world they are up against, every day. And she already lost her family, didn’t she?”

Tina didn’t answer, instead poured herself another cup of coffee. The late morning was warm and balmy outside the window, she could hear birdsong and people talking on the street and the chug of motorcars. What a lovely day, she thought to herself. She’d like to stroll the streets with Percival, steal a kiss in the shadow of a café. But that was not real, that was a life they had pretended, and she feared she might never taste it again, real or imagined. “So, he failed to kidnap her on his first go. He might try again.”

“He won’t take the chance, but his supporters might,” Veronique said, lighting up her fourth cigarette. “Someone told Tobias they brought the girl to MACUSA with Graves. Before he left me in that grave he was going to see to that, but that’s all I know.”

“We’ll see,” Tina said lightly. Veronique scowled, reading underneath the tone.

“Listen here,” she said, sharply. “I only became party to this a couple of days ago, myself. I might know other things about what he’s  _done_ , but for what he’s  _doing_  I’m just as in the dark as you are.”

Tina raised her hands in a gesture of apology. “Can you at least make an educated guess?”

Veronique looked momentarily mollified. “I’m guessing he’ll leave, once it’s clear his reputation has now been ruined,” she replied. “Reputation is very important to the Mopes: who they are, what they’ve done, they talk about it day and night. Exhausting, really.”

“Will he go to his family for help?” Once Percival got her message courtesy of Geneva, it would be easy enough to get together a group and head out to bring Tobias in, but the only trick was figuring out where he would go.

“Not in the emotional sense of the word,” Veronique laughed. “If there’s even a hint he might have embarrassed the family name in some way, they won’t do anything for him. They only tolerated his relationship with me because frankly I’m the toast of New Orleans. But he’ll probably empty out his savings and get out. Why? Are you thinking of visiting the parents or the bank?”

Tina was thinking, looking at the way the cream she put in her coffee was swirling about but not really noticing it. The parents’ place was usually the first option to look for criminals, but from what Veronique said he was going to attempt a different tactic. “What about his house?” she asked. “That might be the first place to check.”

Veronique thought about that, then nodded. “He very well might,” she said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there are priceless antiques squirreled away up there, he could sell those well enough. Or just enough money in the safe to get him started.”

“Well, we can’t let him get away to meet up with Grindelwald, in any case,” Tina said, grimly. “If there’s one thing Grindelwald hasn’t had, it was the backing of a wealthy supporter. I’m sure that’s what made Tobias Mope so attractive.”

“Well, it wasn’t his scholastics,” Veronique snorted. “I guess Grindelwald knows how to pick them, though, since Toby certainly had me fooled. And despite not having the training, he was able to pull off a good many rituals. I hope that hubris cuts him in the end.”

Tina sensed the undertone of embarrassment and anger and hurt pride, and decided not to prod at it. Instead she changed the subject and asked, “So, how do you know Ms Fleming?”

“Oh, I’ve helped Laura with quite a few anti-pregnancy charms,” Veronique said. “She has a few regulars she sees, one of them pays for almost this entire apartment. She’s a good woman; life at a desk or under anyone’s thumb was never her path.”

While Tina had come across sex and prostitution before, she had always been rather distant from it. It happened, often to people she didn’t know. It was strange to be there at that moment, and be aware of it, so near and close; to wear the other woman’s clothes and sit in her apartment. Yet when some weeks ago Tina would have felt out of her element, now instead she felt unbothered and serene. It was not the most unusual situation she had been in, not by a long shot.

Veronique flicked ash from her cigarette. “Speaking of,” she continued. “Where did _your_ necklace go?”

“Hm?” It took Tina a moment to figure out what she was referring to. “Oh, that. It’s somewhere.”

“Did you ever use it?”

Tina met Veronique’s gaze and then, surprising herself, quickly looked back out the window. Veronique laughed.

“I thought it was just a cover,” she teased. “How professional is that?”

“Shut up,” Tina said, primly, and Veronique laughed again. Tina did her best not to smile. Suddenly, she knew why she had wept when Kate had not woken up, that night on Flight Street: it had been a long time since she had had any female friends, so long that Tina had not even recognized it happening. Was that an even bigger breach of professionalism than romancing her superior? Creating emotional ties to suspects in a case? This job had started as a way for Tina to redeem herself, but she was starting to think it was going to sink her instead.

For the first time in years, however, Tina found she wasn’t worried about her career at all.

There was a scrape of a key in the lock, and Geneva entered, looking flushed and breathless, wisps of hair stuck to her sweaty forehead. The atmosphere in the room abruptly tensed and Tina jumped to her feet. “What happened?” she demanded.

“There’s something going on at MACUSA,” Geneva panted, clutching a stitch in her side. It was impossible to Apparate in the building, thanks to Laura’s spells; she’d clearly just sprinted up all six flights of stairs. “I got to the office and everything was locked down. They said there’s been an incident in New York and any messages they sent through weren’t being answered. All of the Aurors have been called in.”

Veronique looked to Tina, frowning. “So?” she said. “Are you going to go?”

It was Tina’s instinct to think quickly and on her feet, but instead she forced her mind to slow down. Look at all the angles, all the possibilities. She felt her palms begin to sweat.

“Is there any missive paper, here?” she asked. “The type of paper I bought from you the other day.”

“What, did you lose it?”

“As you can see,” Tina said, gesturing at her entire body. “I have not been carrying very much with me these days.”

“Fair enough,” Veronique conceded, getting to her feet and beginning to rummage through the drawers in the kitchen, cigarette still perched precariously in her fingers.

During a lockdown it would be difficult to get messages in or out, but this way Tina could be certain that a sent message would get to its destination eventually without relying on anything like owls or other people. It would hover outside of any protections until those protections went down. She could code the message too so that only Percival could read it.

She would not be able to wait for backup before heading to Tobias’ family home, not if she wanted to catch him. A lockdown would only be occurring if something serious was going on, which meant that time was getting very precious. She would not be able to bring Tobias in if she found him, but she could tail him and leave a trail for her MACUSA coworkers to follow.

“Did they tell you anything specific?” Tina asked Geneva, pouring the other woman a glass of water.

Geneva shook her head before taking a gulp. “They seemed scared,” she said. “It definitely wasn’t a drill. Only New York is being affected.”

“Whatever is happening there, Percival Graves will be able to handle it,” Tina said, solidly.

“Found some,” Veronique announced. But ‘some’ it was a very crumpled half of parchment, but it would do for the time being.

Tina took it, grabbed up a quill, and dashed off a message to Percival letting him know where she planned to go. After a moment’s thought, she added the President as another possible recipient, though she doubted it would actually get to Madame Picquery with the sorts of protections and enchantments in place around her. Still, better safe than sorry.

She took out her wand and tapped it against the parchment, and it began to fold itself up into a little paper airplane. “Alright,” she said, going over to the window and pushing it open a bit more. “I’m going to check out the Mope mansion. You two stay here and wait for news back from MACUSA.”

“What?” Geneva asked. Veronique just laughed.

“You’re civilians,” Tina explained, frankly. With a wave of her wand the paper airplane jumped up and then leapt out of the window, zipping off for New York. The enchantments made it fast, but she still figured it would take an hour or two for it to make it to its destination. “I’m grateful and indebted to you for helping me this far, but I can’t afford to have you with me.”

“I understand,” Veronique said. Tina turned to her, startled, and found that Geneva had a similar expression on her face.

“You what?” Geneva demanded.

“I understand,” Veronique said, lighting a new cigarette. “We  _are_  civilians. And in fact, one of us sometimes works outside the bounds of the law – I’m not going to say who, but I think we all know the answer – and we should be grateful the Auror here has yet to act in the official capacity of law enforcement.”

“Right,” Tina said, warily. She sensed a ‘but’ at the end of the story.

She was right. “But we are still going to accompany you regardless,” Veronique said.

“Absolutely not.”

“ _Miss Moon_ ,” Veronique said. Tina had told Veronique her real name, but the woman refused to call her anything else. “I assure you, trying to stop us would be a complete waste of your abilities. We will all come out of the scrape much worse for wear, making you less effective in your job as an Auror. So you can let us follow you around,  _or_  you can duel with the both of us, trying not to harm either of us, perhaps getting injured yourself, and then limp off to go do your job alone. Your choice.”

“ _Veronique_ ,” Tina said. “You need to rest. Look at what has happened to you – to the both of you. A man you both loved has turned on you. You can refute it all you want,” she said, glaring at Veronique, who had opened her mouth to argue, “but I know you loved him or he never would have fooled you the way he did. He got deep into your heart and then he seduced your friend, almost killed your other friend, and then tried to kill you. You’re what they call a loose cannon, and I can’t risk you seeing him and flying off the handle. I can’t be concerned about your revenge.”

“I’m fine,” Veronique said.

“You’re not fine,” Geneva said, quietly. “We are not fine.”

“You should both stay and take care of each other,” Tina said.

She watched the other two exchange looks that were unreadable to Tina but must have communicated something, because when Veronique spoke again Tina could tell an accord had been struck. “We’ll take care of each other,” Veronique conceded. “But we’re still coming. I swear to you I won’t risk either of you for the satisfaction of my revenge.”

Tina shook her head. “I can’t trust you honouring that,” she said, frankly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Geneva said. “We’re coming anyway.”

 

The street looked very different during the day than it had those nights ago on New Year’s Eve. It seemed as if nothing noteworthy had ever taken place there or ever would. It was open and airy and bright, making it a pleasant place to live, so long as you had enough gold in your bank account. One cautious look, though, verified that all those wonderful things meany they could not approach from the front; they would be seen. And naturally, no one but a Mope or a trusted member of the family could Apparate in or out. Veronique, it appeared, no longer counted in the last regard.

“Then how do you propose we go about it, then?” Veronique had demanded. “The back wall of the garden? Beyond that can barely count as an alleyway and besides, there will be just as much risk of anti-burglary spells there as there is up here.”

“We’ll see,” Tina said.

On the night she fled the party, hopping over the wall with Dorian’s help, she had taken note of her surroundings. There had been an alleyway, yes, but it was narrow, wide enough only for a gardener and his wheelbarrow to fit in the course of his groundskeeping duties for whatever household he happened to serve. On the other side of the alley was the walled lawn of a house in similar size and grandness to Tobias’, only reflected in the other direction; and on either side of those houses, the same. The alleyway was what her defense instructor in MACUSA would have generously referred to as a killbox; get stuck in there during a duel and you may as well write your own obituary. It had been fine during a mass exodus of colourful party guests, but for an approach it was dangerous.

But Tina did not attend to get in through the alleyway, but over it.

“See this house?” Tina asked, nodding to it. They were one block over from Tobias’ home, and Tina had ignored the confused grumbling of her companions for leading them so far away from the mark. She knew they suspected her of trying to trick them and shaking them off; to be frank, she had considered that option already before deciding against it.

“Yes,” Geneva said. “Obviously.”

“It’s a No-Maj house,” she said. “No defenses on it. It’s also directly behind Tobias’ home.”

A flicker of recognition passed across Veronique’s face. “Oh!” she said. “We break in here, head through their backyard, and hop the walls into Tobias’ yard. Even if there’s enchantments on the garden wall, there’ll only be a fraction of them compared to what’s down in the alleyway.”

“And once we’re in, we’re in,” Tina said. “Come on.”

If she had to be followed around by civilians, at least they were civilians who were moderately stealthy. It was a wealthy neighbourhood so it was not a surprise that there were people home; yet sticking to the shadows of the trees and along the side of the house, it was easy to remain undetected. Before their quick jaunt across the lawn, however, Tina paused to apply a Disillusionment Charm to all three of them.

They scaled the wall, Veronique giving Tina a boost so that she could get up there first and survey what she was working with.

She almost couldn’t believe her luck; after all that had happened she was expecting the path of highest resistance, but it looked like the Mopes suffered the same security issues that she knew many wealthy wizarding families did: pride. While the alleyway below was swimming with jinxes to repel magical visitors or trip alarms, the wall outlining the Mope house itself was untouched by anything but sunlight.

The most difficult thing ended up being hopping from the wall, over the alley, and onto the next wall, without overbalancing and falling over into the lawn with an undignified shout. That accomplished, they slipped off the wall and into the yard, creeping behind some fancifully pruned bushes.

“I’m going to go ahead,” Tina said. “I need you to stay here for now. When I give the all clear, come in.”

Veronique frowned. “You’re not trying to trick us into staying away, are you?”

“If I was going to do that, I would have done it thirty minutes ago,” Tina said, dryly. “I have the training to check the layout, and we don’t know if anyone is even home yet; or if someone is, whether it’s even Tobias and not some random family member.”

Veronique conceded to that with a nod. “Alright,” she said. “Will you signal us?”

“No. I’ll come out and get you.”

“And what if something goes wrong for you?”

Tina shrugged and didn’t say anything. She could not order them not to come in after her. That would be a decision they had to make on their own.

“See you soon,” she said, before slipping away.

The closer she got, the more she knew the she could not rely on the Disillusionment Charm. Doing her best to be utterly silent and as in the shadows as she could, she made her way to the back door.

The spells locking it up were simple enough for her to get through but she paused at the threshold, wary. She pulled up the same spell she had used when she and Geneva had arrived at the house where Veronique had been buried, and watched the little ball of light zip off into the darkness.

She waited, half in sunlight, half in shadow, listening to the silence. Finally the ball returned to her and dissipated.

No one was home, but that didn’t mean traps weren’t set. Wand at the ready, she stepped inside and began to make her way through the house, going first by her own memories of the night of the party, and then her own instinct from how the house was built and set up to find the hidden rooms.

Everything was pristine and untouched, showing her that there hadn’t been occupants at least since the party. All evidence of large-scale merrymaking had been cleared up; not a speck of glitter remained from the soiree. The pantry in the kitchen was untouched, the beds were made and the pillows on couches were perfectly fluffed. There was no dust anywhere.

Tina knew the spell would have located any witches or wizards present in the house, and yet as she passed through, prepared to dismantle any traps or tricks in her way, she felt like she was being watched. Perhaps the Mopes had a cat or similar pet, that was carefully considering her every move? Not only that, but the house had no defenses to speak of once she was inside, and that made her uneasy.

Was she just being paranoid, or were her instincts trying to tell her something? Try as she might, she could not come up with anything to support the latter.

“Get a grip,” she said to herself, quietly. Having made her way up to the attic and finding nothing, she began to descend. In her quick investigation she found a rather large amount of cash sitting on a bedroom dresser, and an expensive watch on the desk in a study; clearly, if Tobias Mope was intending to clean out readily available riches, he had yet to make it there.

The best thing, she decided, would be to set herself up in the yard and maintain a watch, since the last thing she intended to do was to try to bring Tobias and whatever cronies he had in to MACUSA on her own. If and when they made a run for it or tried to leave the country, she could follow. Tina had no other leads, so she had to hope this was the place Tobias would come to after all.

Figuring it was about time she went out to Veronique and Geneva, she began to head downstairs. That was when she heard a noise: a soft, popping sound. It could easily have come from outside, but Tina froze, suddenly more tense than before.

She thought again of the delicately turned down beds, the lovingly swept floors and shiny candelabras, and that this was a house owned by old blood and old money. And, of course, the unseen gaze upon her. It had not belonged to any human or animal, but, she was willing to bet, to a house elf. And that house elf had just Disapparated, the sound muffled by the walls of the house but not silencing it completely.

Heart pounding, Tina took the next flight of stairs down two at a time. The elf would be informing their master, possibly Tobias himself, if he was the main tenant of the home. And Tobias would do one of two things: he would stay away, or he would trap the interloper.

 _Stay away_ , she hoped. That would be the wise thing to do.

But Tobias Mope was not wise, a fact which became clear very quickly.

She heard the sharp _crack_ of nearby Apparation and darted a quick look out of the closest window, into the backyard. There was Tobias, striding up the back steps and heading for the door Tina had walked through upon first arriving. Cursing, she darted in the opposite direction, heading for the front entrance. She could hopefully get out front and sneak around to the back to gather up Veronique and Geneva. Hopefully, they wouldn’t engage with Tobias before she got there.

As she hurried down the front staircase leading to the carved double-doors of the house, though, a secondary _crack_ heralded the arrival of another. Tina grabbed at the banister to stop her momentum down the stairs as the front doors burst open and another woman sped in.

Tina recognized her face, vaguely, enough to know that she was an Auror, enough to know this was a fight she could not afford to lose. She saw the raised wand and dove to the side, flipping herself over the banister as a spell came crashing up the stairs. It was about a ten foot drop and Tina managed to land upright, but the pain shocking through her ankles made her stumble for a half-second.

The other Auror did not waste time shouting at her, which did not surprise Tina as she ran, hearing the other woman take chase. Still she listened closely, hoping that this Auror would not be skilled enough to silently cast her spells.

Around a corner, Tina roughly bowled right into Tobias Mope, sending him to the floor, leaping over him and darting down the hallway, yet again angling herself towards the backyard. Tobias’ shout held no comprehension in it, likely because Tina was still wearing the Disillusionment Charm and she looked like some strange, human-shaped chameleon.

“Get down!” she heard the Auror yell, and Tina knew she was shouting at Tobias to warn him. Tina threw herself forward just in time to avoid the bulk of a spell that blazed above her, but she smelt burnt hair and felt a blistering heat on her shoulders and back, and she knew that she was on fire.

Tearing down the same servant’s stair she had used those many nights ago when Percival had kissed her for the first time, she burst out into the backyard.

She swept her wand above her in an arc and cast _augamenti_ , desperately attempting to kill the flames licking up her dress and eating away at her hair. The water dropped onto her head, only partially dousing her, but she knew that was all she had time for.

Tobias yelling in rage was her signal to turn on her heel to face them and whip a blast of energy forward. She then pulled up a shield spell as she watched the other Auror grab Tobias and pull him to safety behind her as she blocked Tina’s spell and cast her own. It was like lightning, arcing against Tina’s shield and shattering it. Tina quickly cast again, and then Tobias joined the fray. Two against one.

The seconds that followed stretched on for eternity. Tina had never been in a duel like this before, her wand darting from side to side as she blocked and deflected and sent spells. Her heart was pounding and the blood roared in her ears. One mistake was all it would take. One split second where she was too slow, or a tiny miscalculation, could possibly kill her.

The worst part was that she saw it coming, felt the hesitation catch in her heart, and though she snapped her wand to the side she was too late. The spell hit her in the chest and sent her flying. With horror she noticed the slackening of her own hand, the wand dropping from her fingers before darkness closed upon her.

She woke to a pressure on her chest and it was Tobias, kneeling down upon her, knee firmly pressed between her breasts and making it hard to breathe. “Well, if it isn’t Miss Moon,” he said. Apparently, her camouflage was gone now, perhaps burnt up by the fire, or they had removed it themselves. “What do you make of this, Irene?”

The other Auror hovered above the two of them, mouth twisting in disgust. Her name floated, unbidden, into Tina’s mind. Taxley, was it? Irene Taxley?

Now the young woman was glaring down at Tina like she was the heart of all her problems. “Her? This is Tina Goldstein,” she said. “She _used_ to be an Auror.”

“I still am,” Tina coughed, trying to force air into her lungs. “You’re a disgrace.”

“And you’re dead,” Taxley snapped, readying her wand.

“ _Flipendo_!”

Taxley was blasted unceremoniously off her feet. Tobias leapt up only to be tackled by the still-camouflaged form of either Veronique or Geneva. Tina rolled onto her stomach and groped about in the grass, trying to locate her wand. She didn’t know what training Geneva or Veronique had, but they couldn’t face an Auror without her help.

The world rocked and shook around her as spells went off and people shouted. Tina found her wand and dragged herself to her feet, looking around. Tobias Mope was screaming, his face covered in blood. Taxley no longer had her wand but she flung her arm up and Tina felt her heart stop to see what she held instead.

It was a Clanx gun, dull and menacing and sparking with Dark magic. Tina opened her mouth and shouted a warning, but the noise from the gunshot drowned her out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've noticed some people have been following me on my tumblr! So if you have been doing that, hello, sorry I post too much Hiddles and swear a lot! Also I'm crazy! Okay bye!
> 
> Stuff I reference in this chapter so you don't have to go back and check:  
> Clanx gun: the gun that was fired at Percival on New Year's Eve  
> Irene Taxley: The Auror that was with Higgles on New Year's Eve. She was the one who made sure Damiana and Percival knew Flight Street was on fire. Wink wink nudge nudge.
> 
> I'm sorry this ended on a cliffhanger, but after a lot of plotting, moving stuff around, and looking at how everything was being separated out, this was the best way for me to do it. And seriously, this chapter took me long enough as is. I've been working 60+ hours a week, but things have managed to die down a little. And at least I finally updated right? Right???
> 
>  
> 
> Sob.


	24. cat and mouse

After the rush and bustle of MACUSA, St. Vincent’s was disturbingly calm. Percival hung back, allowing Seline to take the lead in getting their charges to the hospital and properly set up with the right doctors and healers. Part of this was because he still felt ill and slightly off, and was drastically attempting to control it; the second was his focus on Tina’s sister, so close at hand, and for some reason he was compelled not to make eye contact with her.

Instead he focused on Modesty, who had refused to let go of his hand in all the commotion. He had a strange feeling she was trying to comfort _him_ , as opposed to the other way around. When he passed her off to Queenie Goldstein, there was a moment where Modesty hesitated before releasing his hand.

Queenie drew the young girl close to her side. Gone was the sweetness she had peppered him with that night weeks ago, bidding Tina goodbye on the stoop of their apartment. But before she opened her mouth, no doubt to utter something about Tina, it was Modesty who spoke. “Please find Queenie’s sister soon, Mr Graves,” she said. “It’s important.”

There was a beat where he was not sure what to say. “Of course. Behave yourself with Miss Goldstein, Modesty,” he replied, finally, before turning on his heel and nodding sharply at Marcos. She followed him back to the Floos.

The network was back up, and now Percival took the lead to the New Orleans office. The place was not quite in the same disarray as New York, and thankfully no one gave them any trouble, but from the atmosphere he could tell they were still trying to get their feet under them in the aftermath of the security protocols. As he and Marcos passed through Major Investigations a young Auror rushed up, waving his hand to get their attention.

“Mr Graves,” he said. “We have final reports of all the Aurors called in. Only one failed to respond to the summons. Her name is Irene Taxley, she has red-”

“I know her,” Percival interrupted, his mind flashing back to the events of New Year’s Eve. “Do we have-”

Before he could continue, Seline threw her arm out in front of him, thudding into his chest and stopping him in his tracks. “Sir, look,” she said, directing his gaze upward and to the left. On the nearest wall, the real-time Hex Map for New Orleans was lighting up – and quite spectacularly in one section. He’d know that area of the city anywhere.

“Do you know where that is?” Seline asked the other Auror, but Percival tapped her on the shoulder and wordlessly began to walk in the direction of the lobby, his pace much quicker than before. It was a happy coincidence that his responsibility to protect the magical citizens of New Orleans lined up with his hunt for Tina: if there was trouble, he was certain she would be in the thick of it.

“Call for reinforcements,” Seline directed over her shoulder, and jogged to catch up with Percival, matching him step for step. “Where are we going?”

“Ground zero for the mess on New Year’s Eve, I believe.”

“Flight Street?”

“Flight Street was a distraction.”

“Sir,” Seline said, as they stepped out into the daylight of New Orleans. He noticed how, even in the No-Maj activity, the sound of a cornet on the nearby corner, paperboys yelling and shoppers haggling, she kept her focus on him. “I’ll follow you anywhere, but you must know that reinforcements are going to take at least a quarter to half an hour, and from the speed we’re going…”

“I know,” he said. “You don’t have to come.”

“I do,” she said, looking vaguely insulted. “It’s my job. But even if I didn’t, I would come with you anyway. Like I said, sir. I’ll follow you.”

He felt the not unfamiliar sensation of gratitude for the people he worked with, who came into MACUSA and built themselves from the ground upwards and who cared for him in ways he was certain he did not deserve. He wanted Tina back, truly, for more reasons than he cared to admit: but it was easy to remember that even if she had been no more to him than another Auror under his wing, he would still be seeking her out with the same amount of purpose.

“Then let’s go,” he said, offering Marcos his arm. She took it without hesitation.

 

.

 

Tina did not have time to think, which meant that she moved with her gut instinct while the shot was still ringing in her ears. She charged Irene, throwing her arm out and knocking the hand that held the gun aside but not, she was sorry to see, dislodging it from the other woman’s grasp.

Tobias Mope was still screaming, and so was someone else, but Tina could not afford to let her concentration slip for a moment. There was a fizzle of magic in the air that served as her only warning; Tina reached out and grabbed a handful of Irene’s hair before the other woman tried to Disapparate without her.

The world rushed backwards, spinning and dark. It was definitely Irene screaming, now, in pain and anger, but there was no way Tina was going to let go of her hair. Irene could either let it tear from her head, or stop Apparating.

Tina grit her teeth and held on – one hand in the hair, her other curled tightly around her wand – her stomach swirling madly as she fought to orient herself with each passing second. How far were they going? How fast? Where would they arrive? Perhaps in a roomful of Grindelwald followers, all waiting to curse her to oblivion…

They crashed down against wooden crates. Irene was flailing and it took Tina a moment to realize she was trying to rearrange the gun. She twisted to the side, feeling wood splinter beneath them, and finally let go of Irene’s hair to snap the heel of her palm forward, colliding it with the other’s Auror’s nose. She felt the satisfying crunch of cartilage.

Irene shouted an obscenity and kicked out, landing Tina a hard blow on the stomach. Doubling over and gasping, she flailed out and felt the knock of the Clanx gun as it flew from Irene’s hand and disappeared into the darkness of the warehouse.

She expected more blows but instead she felt the crate give way even more as Irene began to scramble madly away. Tina took advantage of the reprieve to back up, dropping over the mangled edge of wood, clutching at her stomach and trying to get her breath.

Just like that, everything was silent. Irene was gone, lost in the murky dimness. Tina stood there, tense and on edge, breathing hard; she could call up a light, but that would reveal her own position. She rotated on her heel, letting her eyes become accustomed to the low lighting. From the noise going on outside the four walls of what appeared to be a warehouse, and also the smell, she could tell they were near water. The docks? Perhaps Irene and Tobias had been preparing to smuggle themselves out via any number of disreputable wizard sailors.

She whispered a summoning charm for the gun, but nothing came to her. Perhaps Irene had it again, or it was built to resist summoning. She was about to step forward, begin a quick sweep of the area, when Taxley’s voice came out of the darkness.

“You of all people should understand.”

“Me?” Tina asked. “Of all people?”

“What you did in New York,” Taxley said. “With the Second Salemers. You took justice into your own hands. You protected one of our own when MACUSA would do nothing.”

Tina turned to the side and slipped between two piles of crates, wanting to keep moving, lest Irene use her voice to locate her. “That's entirely different.”

“Was it?”

It wasn't, which was the horrible thing. As Tina had reflected on her actions those miserable weeks after her demotion, she had felt that she was being punished simply for breaking rank, breaking protocol: breaking the law. Now, though, after her experience with Grindelwald, and Percival, even with Madame Picquery – she knew it had been much more than that. Tina had rebelled in a dangerous way. She had allowed emotion to cloud her judgment and had acted on her own sense of justice, a dangerous thing to do in a world so torn apart.

She knew now why Madame Picquery had not focused so much on Tina's defense of young Credence, but her thirst for vengeance against his foster mother. And she recognized even more how the President's refusal to dismiss Tina from MACUSA entirely had revealed some hope that Tina might redeem herself. Demoting her had not been a punishment; it had been a method of forcing Tina to battle her way uphill again and, hopefully, learn her lesson properly this time.

All this Tina suddenly knew as soon as Taxley accused her, but her mouth could not find the elegance to string those thoughts together, and she knew Taxley would not hear them anyway. Instead she said, “No, it wasn't.”

Instead of mollifying the other woman, the admission seemed to incense Irene. “So you think you're better than me?” she snapped. “You think you can do the things I wish to do and can be held above reproach?”

“No,” Tina said. “I am not above the law, same as you. Now turn yourself in to MACUSA or face the consequences.”

“Consequences,” Irene laughed. “That’s something we can agree on: cause and effect. That’s the only reality in life.”

“Which one are you?” Tina asked, a tinge of mocking colouring her voice. “Cause or effect?”

“You think you’re better than me,” Irene accused. Her voice was starting to echo all around the warehouse; a spell, or just careful positioning? Tina stayed on the move, wand at the ready. “I’ll show you, Tina Goldstein. I’ll show all of you.”

 

.

 

They Apparated before Tobias’ home, on the street, and it immediately became clear that all the commotion was around the back.

Percival liked to wear a certain glamour spell on his clothes that made him unnoticeable unless he drew attention to himself, but there was no such spell on Seline. As a result, her sudden appearance next to a No-Maj woman caused a bark of surprise, but he watched as Selina altered the woman’s memory with a hidden wave of her wand.

There were a good half dozen No-Majs standing out on the street, in their fine clothes or servant’s dress. Percival slipped past them as Seline subtly cast the proper spells, and soon the No-Majs were stepping back, putting a good deal of distance between themselves and the front gates.

“Someone’s being murdered in there,” one man said, ominously. Percival, indeed, could hear the screaming.

“Stay back, please, police business,” he said, imperiously. He hoped the actual police would take their time in showing up; there needed to be at least three Aurors present to cast a proper charm around the house to make it as if nothing was amiss and do some quick Obliviation. He and Seline hadn’t the time for that.

“Are you ready?” he asked her, as they moved around the side of the house.

“Yes, sir.”

She was not; in some ways, neither was he.

The garden was in utter disarray. The lawn was torn up and several of the ornamental shrubs had been blasted apart. The trees weren’t faring much better. There had been a duel, that much was obvious.

The scene was highlighted by Geneva Rawley, no longer the lost girl he had encountered at Lady Talon’s. She was straddling the prostrate form of Tobias Mope, but it was not a love scene. She had a hand around his throat and was striking at him with her other hand in any place she could; despite his attempts to push her off she clung to him like a limpet.

His face was covered in blood.

“You’re lying!” Geneva was screaming. “You’re lying!”

“I’m not!” Tobias was shouting back. “The docks! The docks!”

Percival sprinted up and seized Geneva roughly around the middle, hauling her off Tobias. She shouted and writhed, but her obscenities were clearly still aimed at the dandy groaning and bleeding on the ground. “They’ve killed her, they’ve killed her!” she sobbed. Percival’s heart went cold. Time stopped.

“I’m not dead yet, love,” a voice rasped, and just like that Percival’s world jumpstarted again, rushing forward like the blood he heard in his ears. It was Veronique, half-concealed beneath a set of branches that had been blown from the tree above her. The woman who had been the envy of New Orleans, as striking and beautiful as a dagger, was curled up on her side on the ground. The grass beneath her was dark and wet, as were her hands and the coat bundled around her middle. “But soon. No, nothing will work,” she said to Marcos, who had stooped over her, attempting to get a look at her wound. “I’ve already tried. It bleeds and bleeds…”

“Was it a gun?” Percival said, as Geneva continued to struggle against him.

Veronique gave him an oddly calm stare for someone bleeding out through their stomach. She was pale, so pale it was as if she were already a corpse. “It was, and the bitch still had it when she left,” she said. “She’s gone for greener pastures, without this dandy fool.”

“Die!” Tobias spat. Looking closer, now, Percival saw that Tobias’ face wasn’t just bloody, but gouged; it seemed centred around the left side, completely obscuring one eye.

A smile began to curl up Veronique’s face, like a cat with the canary. “The spell is broken. What I do, I do now separate from you,” she said, in a luxurious drawl. “I die on my own terms… and terms I make for you as well…”

“I’ve got this, sir,” Seline said suddenly. She looked disturbed – but, of course she did. She was still young and had never worked in New Orleans, had never seen anything like this. The scene was affecting her, he could tell, but he did not have time to deal with it. He had to _go_ … he had to find her… “You need to go.”

Even in his adrenaline and panic over Tina, he noticed her knife laying nearby, sticky from use. He released Geneva, taking several steps over to the knife and kicking it away, into a growth of flowers, lest someone try to use it again. “The docks?” he asked her.

Geneva let out a shaky breath. “So he says,” she nodded, shooting a look at Tobias, before saying the words he both wanted and dreaded to hear: “Tina followed her.”

Right before he Disapparated, he saw the scene before him, like some sort of battlefield painting. Veronique was stretching out a bloody hand, ignoring Seline’s fruitless attempts to administer to her. “Come here, Genny, darling,” she was rasping. “I need to tell you some things, before I go…”

 

.

 

Tina had trained for this. The problem was, so had Irene.

The only saving grace for Tina now, perhaps, was her extra years of experience and her mentoring by Percival himself. That kept her light and on her feet, darting through the rows of crates and around sacks of sugar, surrounded by the smells of the various wares; the light notes of apples, the heady aroma of coffee.

Whenever she caught sight of Irene she hurled a hex, which was sometimes avoided, sometimes retaliated with a hex of Irene’s own. Beyond the constant running and maneuvering and spells, they worked in utter silence, no longer trading barbs or insults. This was a game of cat and mouse, and Tina was not interested in being the mouse.

Sensing a movement above her, like a whirl of air, she ducked her head and ran forward through an overhang of crates and furniture. Irene blasted a curse at her, sending a wave of splinters up all around her, and Tina held her arm up and her gaze down to protect her eyes.

That’s when she saw the Clanx gun, tucked away in a shadowed corner. Irene saw it too. They both went for it.

It wasn’t that Tina was slow; Irene was simply closer. The moment she saw she wouldn’t make it in time, Tina threw her momentum to the side, scampering out of the way as a bullet whizzed past, burying itself in a crate where Tina had been seconds before. She came face to face with one of the warehouse’s walls, and she whirled to face the other woman, wand at the ready.

“Haven’t you learned your lesson about New Orleans yet?” Irene asked, as she cocked the gun. “You can’t fight Dark magic. You just have to see where it takes you.”

The _crack_ that echoed through the warehouse was not the gun; even Irene looked startled to hear it, for she had not pulled the trigger. Someone had just Apparated. Tina glanced up and saw Percival atop a stack of crates, looking ruffled and haphazard but as ready as ever.

Irene must have seen it in her eyes, because now she did not hesitate to take aim.

 

.

 

Percival saw Irene with the gun leveled at Tina, and he made the only decision he could in that instance.

He punched the nearest crate as hard as he was able. He felt the skin of his knuckles split and his bones jarring all the way to his elbow. But he felt, too, the crumble of the Peruvian stone embedded in his ring, and before he drew his next breath the world had been blotted out in darkness.

The bang of the gun was louder than he remembered it – of course this time it wasn’t being muffled by half a dozen spells flying at him. But it was nowhere near him and, he hoped, nowhere near Tina. He ran in her direction, hand outstretched; and to his surprise he felt her reach out and grab his shoulder, and he knew she had gone for him as he had for her.

“She’s had three shots so far,” she said, in his ear. “The gun only holds four. She might have one left, or she might have none.”

“Cowards!” Irene screamed, furiously. She sounded on edge. Clearly, Tina had frustrated her enough to madden her; if Percival had allowed himself a moment, he would have felt quite pleased.

“If she has more ammunition, we can’t give her time to reload,” Percival said, taking Tina’s hand as they ran, taking shelter in amongst the dry goods. The darkness powder was already beginning to fade.

Then, terrifyingly, Tina slipped her hand from his. “You’re right. I’ll distract her, you take her out,” she said, turning and beginning to climb a crate.

“Tina!” he hissed. “Get back here.”

“No,” she said, shortly. “Watch my back.”

Since his only other alternative was to reach up and drag her down, a move that might endanger the both of them, he had no choice but to keep his wand at the ready.

“Come on out, Taxley,” Tina hollered. Percival skirted around the side of the crates, keeping a wary eye out. “Who’s the coward now?”

She leapt out of the way as a spell came crashing down, and Percival flung one out in response. Irene cursed and ducked back out of sight. Admittedly, Tina had made the right choice; Irene was no match for Percival, let alone him with Tina. The gun brought an element of danger to the fight, but Irene could not aim and fire as quickly as she could spellcast.

Tina kept up her movements, staying out in the open, forcibly drawing Irene forward into engaging with her. Irene likely knew what they were doing, but as they all knew, she could do nothing about it than try to circumvent them. If Irene was wise, she would have chosen to flee by now; but Percival suspected that she was not only too proud, but she had nowhere to go that couldn’t be tracked by himself or Tina in minutes.

Tina swirled her wand around her, pulling up a shielding spell, but he noticed she did it as extravagantly as possible. She tossed her head back and smirked. She was rubbing it in, angering Irene only as one woman could to another. “What’s that you said about Dark magic, Irene?” she mocked.

Percival saw Irene before Tina did; the other woman was launching herself from the shadows of the ceiling, face twisted with grim determination, her wand trailing white fire. Percival threw a spell upwards, like a blast of wind, which whipped past Tina, stirring her hair, and caught Taxley full in the face.

Irene blew back like some kind of bird buffeted in a breeze, expression going from determined to agonized as the spell hit her. But the fire from her wand seemed to explode and spread, seeming to light the very air around her. She dropped like a rock, crashing into crates and sacks, the fire bursting all around her.

Percival recognized that Irene had been attempting to light Tina’s very shield on fire, and it had instead wrapped around Irene because of his actions. He leapt forward, summoning water, but it only created steam in combination with the flames.

They couldn’t let her die; she knew too much. Tina had the very same idea and was already there before him, shouting a containment charm, trying to create a space without air to snuff the fire out immediately. He could barely hear her, because the flames seemed to be roaring as they burned. The fire continued and Percival smelt burning sugar.

Miraculously, horrifically, Irene Taxley seemed unhurt save for the fall and Percival’s spell. She rose from the flames, barring her teeth savagely, her wand in one hand, the gun in the other. There was one more shot, then, and his heart stopped for Tina who was so close, so hard to miss.

But the gun was pointing straight at him, and so was the wand, and Irene’s lips were moving; the sound of the inferno drowned her out. But he knew instinctively what she was doing and the way Tina looked over her shoulder at him, fear in her eyes, confirmed it.

One last bullet could not be held to chance. A homing spell in combination with the gunshot would make certain the bullet found its target. He could practically hear Seraphina’s voice in his head: _you’re running out of lives._

Tina moved. He was glad, suddenly, of the homing spell; there was no way for Tina to try to take the bullet for him. It would veer around her and head straight for his heart and would be his problem, and his alone. He slashed his wand to the side, knowing his only chance was to hope his magic was good enough to stop it.

Irene pulled the trigger. Tina swept her wand in a great arc and she seemed to scream so loud, the magic magnifying her voice, that he felt the words vibrating in his teeth. _Finite Incantatem_.

Many things happened all in the space of a single instant. The flames went out. The gun sparked and backfired in Irene’s hand and she howled. The bullet, now a dead and mundane thing, pinged off the floor and tumbled into the shadows. But most seriously of all, Tina’s wand exploded.

It was practically seismic from the way Percival felt his feet lift off the ground. He stumbled back against a crate but didn’t waste any time in pushing himself forward and running over. Irene, who had been nearest to the blast, was unconscious in a smouldering pile of burnt sugar and apples. Tina was several feet away and on her back on the cold floor, blood starting to seep through her dress and welling up on her bare arms.

He knelt, hesitant to touch her, to do anything, because that was _wand wood_ embedded in her flesh, one of the trickiest substances known to wizardkind. “Goldstein,” he said, leaning over her. His hands were wet with her blood and he tried not to think about it. “I’ve got you.”

She didn’t move; her eyelashes didn’t even flutter. But her lips twitched and he leaned in close. “I know,” she breathed, the words rattling out of her throat. In that moment he wished he could heal her as she had healed him, but he was powerless. All he could do was summon help, keep her from further harm, and trust that she was stronger than he was.

He stayed there, knelt over her protectively, until the medics came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of readers who got mad at Irene bringing a gun to a wandfight made me grin XD The gun she has was originally a Colt House Revolver before Clanx modified it. It was manufactured in 1871, held four rounds, and was also called a 'Cloverleaf'.
> 
> So for the record I comb through spells on the HP wikis to find the ones that suit me, along with spells I make up. Finite Incantatem was one of those obvious ones that show up in the books and movies but for some reason it never occurred to me until recently that it would suit my purposes wonderfully in the story. It's a spell that obliterates all other spells in its vicinity. Since Tina more or less eliminated the casting effects of two other spellcasters, her own, plus the Dark magic embedded in the Clanx gun, it took a lot of juice. Combine that with using a wand that isn't even hers? I figured an explosion was in order (I really LIKE explosions, ok).
> 
> Just so there's no confusion: Veronique did not survive to the end of this chapter. There were a lot of characters who were marked for possible death in this story and unfortunately as the plot went by, ole Ronny drew the short straw. I do write a lot of original stuff in my spare time and if I ever get published (unlikely but you never know) she will definitely live again. Anyway I tried to let y'all know in my foreshadowin'!  
> I kept hers and James Talon's deaths purposefully off screen because I find the whole 'dying in so-and-so's arms' scenes to be vaguely annoying if it's overused, and there are way too many scenes of people cradling each other in their arms in this story as is. LIKE, THE END OF THIS CHAPTER, FOR INSTANCE.


	25. st. vincent's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm updating twice in one week (first time in forever!) so make sure you've read the chapter before this just in case you missed it. :)

**_ NEW YORK GHOST – SUNRISE EDITION January 3 1927 _ **

**THE PASSING OF AN ICON by Timothy Murk**

_The New York Ghost is saddened to report the death of James Talon this morning. Lord Talon, well known for his philanthropy – most especially in his inheritance and running of Lady Talon’s Home for Lost Souls – was pronounced dead this morning by healers at St. Vincent’s. The official cause of death has not been released, but a source from the hospital confirms it was due to spell-based trauma._

_Due to the stringent security measures surrounding Lady Talon’s Home, we have been unable to receive a statement regarding this catastrophic loss to wizarding society. Additionally, the majority of Lord Talon’s family is on holiday in Egypt, but we are hoping that there will be a public memorial service at the very least to be held in honour of this great man._

_James Talon was one of the few surviving members of the Talon Clan after their heavy involvement in the Great War, most notably their piloting of the deadly but unstable Phoenix D12s. He is survived by Hippolyta Talon (grandmother), Lawrence Talon (cousin), and Archibald and Corinthia Talon (parents)._

 

.

 

Seraphina was already there when he arrived, standing off to one side, almost easy to miss in the crowd. He had arrived long after everyone else, having lingered at the scene until he could avoid the hospital no longer. And despite all she had to deal with, there she was, waiting for him. “Here,” she said, taking him by the elbow and leading him into a small bathroom. “Wash your hands.”

The water was the colour of rust when he rinsed his hands; the soap smelled like roses, like Tina. He gripped the edge of the washbasin and felt Seraphina peer at him with those unfathomable eyes.

“I received a missive after you left,” she said. “From Goldstein, meant for you or myself. It gave us a head start in mobilizing. I can only imagine what might have happened if we had been a few minutes too late.”

“Have you got a cigarette?” he asked, knowing how unlikely it was.

Seraphina didn’t answer, but she walked over to the bathroom door and made sure it was locked. “Open the window, won’t you,” she said, pleasantly, going through her robes for a cigarette case. That both irritated and pleased him, because Sera never carried cigarettes; she must have stuffed them in her pocket sometime today, as if knowing Percival would ask her. Or maybe she had grabbed them for herself out of stress? That was worse. She didn’t like to carry her own.

Less than a minute later they were both leaning against the sink, smoking. Percival used the moment to get a good look at Seraphina. Unlike himself, ragged from duelling, she was pristine, her hair carefully wrapped, her form slim and rigid all at once. But even if her clothes were in rags it wouldn’t have mattered. Seraphina never fell apart in stages: she was either put together, or she wasn’t. It was all in her eyes.

“Perce,” she sighed, slinging an arm around his shoulders for a moment, as if they were in their early twenties again. “I’m glad you’re not dead. But I need you to get looked at by a doctor before the hour is up, even if it’s just by Antoine.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Percival,” she said, gently. “I’m having a hard day. I lost one of my oldest friends this morning, my law department has been infiltrated, I suddenly have an orphan on my hands, _again_ – to say nothing of the statements I have to make to the press and what they’re going to do to me in the papers. So if you go ahead and drop dead on me now, I will have no choice but to deny you a proper burial and throw you into the harbour out of spite. The No-Majs can deal with your body when it finally gets caught in a fishing net.”

Percival tapped ashes into the sink. “Well. When you put it that way.”

She took the cigarette from him and stubbed it and hers out, turning on the tap and washing them away. “Hour’s up,” she said.

“It’s only been five minutes.”

“Get out, Percival.”

 

Percival had refused to let Antoine treat him directly following his release from Grindelwald: he just couldn’t face his friend. Frankly, he’d just been too embarrassed. He had been tricked, thwarted, and held captive against his will, and while he knew that pride could be a dangerous thing a man did need _some_ of it to survive the world.

So instead Percival had been treated by a medley of other doctors, and Antoine had stayed away. Whether his friend was offended or not by the imposed distance Percival didn’t know, and they hadn’t discussed it that night he had shown up at his and Gloria’s home.

Now, though, Antoine was the only doctor he was prepared to see. He had been seen to a private room but had ejected, with very uncouth language, two other doctors until they finally had the sense to send Antoine in. By the time the other man arrived, Percival was pacing back and forth, restless from lack of sleep, food, cigarettes, or all three.

“Stop,” Antoine said. “Just stop. Basta, my friend.”

Percival didn’t, though he allowed his pace to slow as he looked the other man over. He was as per usual dressed as casually as he could get away with, his tie loose and his hair falling around his face, but the stern lines of the doctor’s robe thrown casually over his shoulders left no room for error: he was one of the lead healers at the hospital. And there was Percival, insisting on taking up his time purely for his own comfort.

“I don’t think I _can_ stop,” he said, honestly. “I’m going to keep going until I wear a hole in the floor.”

“I’ll get you a draught after this,” Antoine said. “For now just try to sit and be still long enough for me to run a few tests. Sera said you were on the receiving end of a pretty bad curse this morning.”

“Worse things have happened today,” Percival mused, darkly.

“ _Sit_.”

Friendship aside, Antoine was always very methodical. He checked Percival’s heart and lungs and circulation, then his eyes, along with casting several other spells Percival did not know but the results of which Antoine scrutinized and recorded on a clipboard. Antoine also stabbed him several times in the arm with a variety of magical apparatus that did nothing – except one, which let out an ungodly shriek. Antoine, however, did not seem very concerned.

“You’ve definitely been in worse shape,” he said, confirming Percival’s suspicions. “You’ve had some internal damage and there’s remnants of the spell left in you that would likely spread eventually, but we can treat it quite easily. The good news is I can prescribe you the potions and after that there’s very little a decent sleep and a few square meals can’t fix.”

“So I’m not dying.”

“We’re all dying,” Antoine said. “But I know that’s not what you meant. No, you’ll be fine.”

“And Tina?”

That had been part of the reason why he had wanted to see Antoine; he was perhaps the only doctor there Percival had the courage to demand answers from, because whatever they were his friend would know how to answer them without making Percival want to punch him in the face.

Without missing a beat, Antoine said, “Too early to tell. A specialist has been called in for the surgery. But I have complete faith she will make a full recovery. Now,” he added, before Percival could press him for further information, “I’m going to subscribe to you a sleeping draught to put you under for a bit. Before you take it, drink the other potions the nurse gives you and please, _please_ try to eat something.”

“I’m not sure a nap is the best thing for me right now, Antoine. I have work to do.”

His friend tipped his head to the side. Between the two of them and Gloria, Antoine had always been taken for the soft one, the bleeding heart, the _idealist_ , by the rest of the students in their school. In some ways, those impressions had been very correct: he could get to the heart of others and understand their motivations better than most. So instead of trying to combat Percival’s stubbornness, he just went straight to where it was tender. “Think of it this way: sleep will pass the time quickly so that by the time you’re awake, they might even let you go in and see her.”

It was a compelling argument indeed.

 

.

 

“He’s out like a light,” Antoine said. “And the nurse says he even ate a sandwich. He will live after all.”

“Good.” Seraphina carefully rubbed at the corner of her eyes, not wanting to smudge her eyeliner. She wished she could sleep, too, but that was not something she could consider just yet. “And Goldstein?”

“Still in surgery. You know, you don’t have to talk to me like one of your employees.”

“Sorry; force of habit,” she sighed.

They were sitting in Antoine’s office, far away from the Trauma Floor, where most of the action was taking place. Instead they were near the Birthing Floor, which was mostly filled with expectant fathers, cooing nurses, and newborn babies squawling for milk. It was also very close to the nursery and child-minding areas where they had currently secured Modesty.

Seraphina hated to put the girl through so much turmoil, moving from guardian to guardian – at the moment she was being watched over by an Auror – but she found she had little choice. Queenie was beside herself and could be seen standing outside the operating rooms where Tina was, looking like she was about to faint or burst into tears any minute. Sera couldn’t fault her for being unable to deal with anything else; had it been Gloria, Seraphina would have done the same, her presidency be damned.

“I’ll need to figure out what to do with her,” she murmured, to herself. Antoine didn’t ask her who she was talking about.

“Come home with us, tonight,” he said. “Gloria will fix you up a bed and a proper meal and you can take a bath in silence. You won’t get any rest at your place with half of the town knocking on your door for a statement.”

“Of course I will. No one can _get_ to the front door.”

“You won’t,” he said, firmly. “You should know I’m not suggesting it; Gloria is demanding it. She’s already roasting two chickens.”

“Oh, two, is it?”

“And two loaves of fresh bread.”

Seraphina sighed. She had work to do; she couldn’t just run off to Georgia. But she had to admit there was nothing for her to do now besides her usual tasks, which she could easily finish today. Right now she could only wait on Sebastian Vidal and his team to carry out their investigations and report back to her, which they wouldn’t be able to do until the morning, anyway. And they had to sleep, too.

And she thought again of Queenie Goldstein, fluttering anxiously through the hallways of St. Vincent’s like her entire existence could be blown away in an instant. Because that was what it would be like, Sera realized, to lose a sibling. Her own was safe and thriving, surrounded by children, and asking, yet again, for Sera to spend some time beneath her mothering wing.

“Alright,” she said. “Fine.”

 

.

 

She ached all over. It even hurt to breathe. Her mouth was dry, her tongue rasping through her mouth as she attempted to lick her lips for relief. All this registered before she opened her eyes.

She was laying in a bed, and the colour of the walls and the functional look of the room told her it was St. Vincent’s. There was a hand in hers, she saw, as she blinked groggily down at her side. A very familiar hand, long-fingered and beautiful, twined with her own.

She tried to say something, which stuck in her throat, and she coughed. The movement sent pain racing all through her body and she doubled forward. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her sister start and come to attention, barely awake but reaching for the water glass.

“Here,” she mumbled hurriedly, and pressed the glass to Tina’s lips. Tina drank and after the first mouthful of foul-tasting gunk, some moisture sank into her lips, and by the third gulp of clear, cold water she was beginning to feel just a bit better. Her sister, too, appeared to be waking up herself.

Queenie was a mess; most of her makeup had been rubbed off and her hair was frizzy. She also had a distinct scent of sweat about her instead of her usual breath of perfume, and Tina wondered how long her sister had been sitting at her bedside, holding her hand.

“Not that long,” Queenie answered. “You’ve only been resting here for about five hours. I mean, you were in surgery until then. They said the anaesthetic would take awhile to wear off.”

Tina started to lay back again and winced, her hand going to her stomach where she felt the painful pull of several wounds knitting together. That motion had the sleeve of her hospital robe falling back, revealing bandages all over her forearm. “I’m fine,” she said, quickly, noting how scared her sister suddenly looked.

Queenie reached her other hand forward, and something that had been in her lap fell to the floor. She ignored it, instead clasping both of Tina’s hands. “They tried to get me to go home once visiting hours were up,” she said. “I told them I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after midnight. Want me to get you something to eat? Doctor said you could have a couple dry biscuits, maybe some tea-”

“No,” Tina said, quickly. “No. Don’t leave me alone, Queenie.”

Her sister gave her a very watery-looking smile. “We’ll wait ‘til the night nurse comes by, then.”

There was something else Tina wanted to ask, something she was burning to think about that hovered at the edge of her consciousness, but she couldn’t let herself reach out and grasp it. It pained her but it was too precious, too secret, to reveal in front of Queenie. Just for now.

Besides, Tina wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“What’s that,” she asked, directing her attention instead to the bundle on the floor. Queenie smiled and moved away slightly so she could stoop down to retrieve it.

“A dress,” she said, and held it up for Tina’s inspection. “See?”

It was rosy-coloured with a few white satin flowers stitched to the hem, and similarly coloured ribbon ties. It was still in the process of being sewn – a thread with a needle dangled from the hem – and was in a style quite modest and unlike Queenie’s usual taste. Also, it was several times too small.  

“It’s for Modesty Barebone,” she said, answering Tina’s unspoken question. “Poor girl came here with only one dress and nothing else sorted for her. I made her another one and some shifts, she has them now, but she could do with a few more things to wear so long as she’s here. I guess I finally have something to do with all those fabric remnants I’ve got laying around, huh?”

“Modesty Barebone is here?” Tina asked. “She’s safe?”

“As houses, honey.”

Tina scrutinized her sister very closely. Queenie was always a sweet person, kind and thoughtful, but there was something suddenly not quite right about her expression, her smile. It wasn’t quite _real_.

“You’re not telling me something,” Tina accused.

Queenie lowered the dress and sighed. “It’s a long story,” she said. “I’ll tell you later, I promise, but Modesty _is_ safe.”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“’Cause you look like you’re gonna pass out in a coupla minutes and I’d have to start the story all over again when you wake up,” she teased.

Tina sighed, laying her head back against the pillow. “Can’t argue with that,” she murmured. Queenie reached over to brush hair from her forehead, and Tina remembered the fact that she had been, however briefly, on fire – including her hair. “How does it look?” she asked.

Queenie’s lips thinned. “About half of it is gone,” she said, and Tina realized her sister’s expression had nothing to do with a grimace but was instead preventing a snooty, sisterly smirk from spreading across her face. “You look like a baby bird.”

“Can you fix it?”

Her sister chuckled. “Oh, yeah,” she said, stroking the remnants of Tina’s hairstyle. “Don’t you worry about it. Just go to sleep. I’ll wake you when the nurse comes ‘round to get you a snack.”

Tina reached out, squeezing her sister’s wrist. “I love you,” she said.

Queenie’s expression trembled. “I know,” she whispered, and Tina knew her sister was reading her feelings as easily as if they were her own. “I love you, too.”

 

.

 

**_ NEW YORK GHOST – SUNSET EDITION JANUARY 3 1927 _ **

**THE RETURN OF GRINDELWALD? by Eileen Forge**

_Earlier today the wizarding world was rocked by events involving the lockdown of New York’s MACUSA offices. We have it on special authority that even though Grindelwald himself has been expelled from American soil, MACUSA itself has been infiltrated by his supporters which culminated in a firefight there this morning. Rumor has it the leak has even made its way into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement._

_This news is not surprising, as it comes on the heels of Department Head Percival Graves’ rather embarrassing entanglement with the European zealot (Graves, we remind you, was recently put on forced leave by the President herself) as well as his recent connection to several instances of arson and violence in New Orleans._

_During a press conference early this afternoon, Madame Picquery sought to reassure the city of New York that the threat of Grindelwald has been stamped out once and for all. In response to questions as to whether Graves was responsible for this new danger, she firmly replied in the negative. “The Department of Magical Security has officially rescinded the arrest warrant for Percival Graves in the course of their investigation,” she answered, “and he has been reinstated to his proper place as Director and also Head of Law Enforcement.”_

_Such a reinstatement could not have been given lightly; however even if he is not the enemy, Graves may very well still be involved in the chaos happening over the past several days. Again, Madame President dodged our enquiries. “You will have to speak with him yourself,” she said. “Unfortunately, he is unavailable for comment at this time. No, Eileen, I do not know when he will be available. I am not his secretary.”_

_Civilian witnesses did confirm Graves’ presence in the MACUSA atrium this morning, as well as several other Aurors engaged in a duel. When pressed, Madame Picquery cited confidentiality concerns as “this is an ongoing investigation”._

_“This will be the Law Department’s top priority moving forward,” she insisted. “But I can assure you the brunt of the work has been done and we have nothing to fear from this threat any longer. Grindelwald, nor his supporters, are any match for MACUSA.”_

_It is not difficult to consider, however, that many things have been going on behind closed doors lately. While Gellert Grindelwald’s escape was undoubtedly the result of shoddy work by our European counterparts, the infiltration into MACUSA via Graves was a huge danger to us all (as this reporter has written in great detail over the past four weeks!). That entanglement almost revealed our society to the No-Majs once and for all. Did today pose a similar threat? What is Madame Picquery hiding?_

_While I am always patriotic, I must stop to question the motives of our government from time to time, as to whether our safety is truly their concern – or if they are more concerned with protecting the reputations of those in positions of power._

_As ever, we at the New York Ghost will strive to bring you the most valuable news straight from the source, and are your faithful servants in truth in these dire times. We hope soon to learn more about what MACUSA has done to keep us safe from threats both international, and close to home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really couldn't help doing a very Rowling-esque thing writing the second news article, where there's kind of a ridiculous moment in amongst the serious. Like, shut up Eileen, you're giving Sera a headache.
> 
> Ok so wanna know some more fun facts guys? Smoking in hospitals was totes A-OK in America until like, the 80s! Yeah! I mean, it depended on each particular hospital and the doctors and nurses in them and their personal habits, but yeah, patients and staff were definitely allowed to smoke indoors. It was more of a cleanliness thing that had to be observed in various places (ashes everywhere, nicotine-stained walls, anyone?) so when Percival inevitably lights up publicly in the hospital, don't be too shocked. But you know since Antoine and the other doctors probably run a tight ship and don't feel like dusting ashes off their patient's injuries while treating them, I'm sure scoldings happen.  
> (Seraphina is only erasing the evidence because she likes to pretend she doesn't smoke. SPOILER ALERT she does.)
> 
> I know y'all probably wanted some cute scene where Tina wakes up to see Percival. Don't worry, you'll get them being cute soon enough. But Queenie and Tina? Queenie and Tina, guys.


	26. bedside manner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of smooshiness in this chapter. I actually didn't write it. I only know how to write explosions??? This chapter just showed up on my hard drive out of nowhere. I mean the actual chapter 26 I was writing involved an explosion but I'm just going to delete that and put this chapter up instead.

Percival woke in darkness to the familiar feeling of having passed out, fully clothed, after a very exhausting day. At least the air inside the room was cool, instead of stuffy; unlike No-Majs who relied on open windows to get a breeze, the entirety of St. Vincent’s had enchanted airflow to stop the many, many rooms from getting stuffy, even when it was crowded.

On first diagnosis he had a headache, but besides that he supposed he was fine. He carefully stretched, feeling the myriad of aches and pains that seemed to wake up along with him. All of that was to be expected from the things he had been doing for the past twenty-four hours. Taking a breath and slowly levering himself upright, he studied his surroundings.

The room was unchanged from when he had been awake, save for the near-darkness. He didn’t even remember laying down, the sleeping draught had hit him so quickly. He groped around for his wand, which he found on the bedside table, and then searched for his shoes (someone had thoughtfully placed them under the bed. The nurse, probably).

Sweet Morgana, he needed a cigarette. Perhaps there was someone still around to get one from; if not he might have some at home, as he planned on heading there immediately. There was no question of seeing Tina at such a late hour, or even getting news of her wellbeing; still, he felt if there had been bad news, someone would have come and woken him. That’s what he hoped, in any case.

With that tension curling between his shoulder blades, he wandered out into the hall. He knew St. Vincent’s well from his many years as an Auror, and especially so during his (somewhat forced) convalescence after Grindelwald. He was nowhere near the long-term patient wings, which was good. He had no interest in perusing those halls again.

Glancing at the nearest clock, he saw it was nearly two in the morning. He would head home, shower, catch a few more hours of sleep, and hopefully smoke a proper cigarette before returning in the morning to get to work.

“Good to see you up and about, Mr Graves.” The voice floated from the mouth of a corridor he had passed, and he doubled back to see Samantha Grady sitting at the all night nurse’s station. While Percival would rather go home than socialize, he gravitated towards her because she was smoking.

“Just on my way out,” he said. Grady was in her late forties, the sort of healer who knew more than the young doctors who came in fresh from training. “Have you one of those to spare?”

“I do, so long as you use an ashtray. The janitors have better things to do than sweep up ashes.”

“Are you sure you’re not just trying to get me to stay and talk?” he asked, wryly, as he leaned forward a bit over the counter to let her light the cigarette.

“Hm, that too,” she admitted. “Dreadfully boring, these night shifts, but the money’s good. And I fell out of love with my husband years ago, so why bother being home in time to share the bed?”

“Do you ever not talk about personal subjects at work?” Percival asked, dryly. He remembered how last month during his stay, Grady had spoken to him extensively about her son’s obsession with driving No-Maj cars on one of her medication rounds.

When Percival reminded her that he was technically a member of law enforcement and her son could be arrested, she’d simply replied with, “I know, could he be? He’s going to get himself killed in one of those contraptions.”

“No, I hate the very idea of small talk,” she said. “You know that.”

Cigarette finished, Percival felt mildly better and bid Grady goodnight, and started to head off towards the exit.

Wanting to avoid the all night emergency room – he wasn’t exactly looking his professional best, and there were always civilians there at any time of day or night – he cut through another wing, the corridors of which ran above emergency. As he passed through, he was hailed once more, but this time by an Obliviator he recognized, but could not quickly recall the name of.

“Mr Graves, sir," the man said, respectfully. “How are you feeling?”

“Perfectly fine,” Percival said. He could tell this was not a standard polite greeting, just from the way the Obliviator seemed to pause and mince his steps. “How is everything?”

“It’s the Barebone girl,” the other man said, visibly relieved that Percival had asked. “I think there’s something wrong with her.”

“Wrong?” He felt a spike of worry. “How?”

“Well… she’s crying.”

Percival just stared at him. The man flushed.

“She’s crying,” Percival repeated, nonplussed. “Have you asked her what’s wrong?”

“Of course!” Then, seeming to realize he had snapped at the Director of Magical Security, he quickly backtracked. “She was fine until about a couple of hours ago, the nurses and healers changed shifts. The one posted to her seemed to upset her, and now she doesn’t want to talk to anyone, least of all me. I apologise, sir, but… I heard you were the one who brought her in so… I thought…”

Percival grimaced. Not because he had been the one this man came to, but because if he knew Modesty had come into MACUSA with Percival, then others did, too. He wanted her name as unconnected to Grindelwald’s exploits as possible… but that would need to be dealt with in the morning.

“Lead the way,” he said.

“She’s just around the corner, sir.”

At the door, Percival could hear nothing of what might be going on within. It was a small dorm room where children stayed when their parents or guardians were overnight patients, but at the moment Modesty was the only one using it.

“You’re sure she’s in there? She hasn’t snuck out and made a run for it?”

“She’s definitely in there, sir. I may not be an Auror, but I can keep an eye on a six-year old. I’ve got twins at home.”

Percival gave a small smile at that. “Alright. I’ll check on her.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He gave three short, light knocks to announce his arrival, then slowly opened the door. All of the six beds in the room were empty, but there was a flash of movement by the window. At first he really did think Modesty was trying to make her escape, but he realized after a moment she was simply sitting in the (magically created) moonlight.

“Modesty,” Percival said, stepping in and lightly shutting the door behind him. The quiet of the room made everything seem a little too loud and he felt the need to speak in a hushed tone, even though it was just the two of them. “You should be in bed.”

Her knees were drawn up to her chest, making her seem rather small. There was a small, cushioned seat by the window, but she was perched up on the sill itself, her bare feet tucked against the edge to keep her steady. In the dimness her eyes did seem rather red.

“I can’t sleep,” she said. “Is that moon real?”

He walked over to her, ducking his head a little to peek properly through the window. The moon that hung in the sky was sharp and curved, like a sickle. “That’s the moon,” he confirmed. “But the window enhances the brightness, filters out everything else.”

“I never really saw the moon until I went to Lady Talon’s,” Modesty said. That was when Percival noticed she had a book beside her, lying face down on the sill. Had she been trying to read by the moonlight? Casting his gaze around, he noticed all the unlit lamps. “I never knew how bright it could be. You could look out the window and see all the way to the woods.”

“May I sit with you?”

She nodded.

He sat down on the seat. With her perched on the sill, they were about eye level with each other. He looked over his shoulder, out at the blurred silhouettes of city buildings. The window wasn’t real; it was more like an enchanted picture frame. But the view itself was as real as could be of the city outside.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” he asked, not turning to look at her as he did so, but noticing her out of the corner of her eye.

She gave a sly little smile. “You look like a hobo.”

He turned, then, startled. “A what?”

 Modesty giggled at the expression on his face. “What ma would say if she saw you,” she said, reaching out with a fingertip, stopping just short of his cheek. “She said you couldn’t trust a hobo. I still trust you, though.”

Percival rubbed his hand over his cheek where, sure enough, his stubble was growing in quite fiercely. Of course; he hadn’t shaved since that morning at Violetta’s, and his beard was always quick to stake a claim if he let it be. “Well, I’m glad you’re not so judgmental,” he said, dryly.

“Mr James said not to judge unless it’s your good judgment.”

Of course, Mr James. Modesty had a myriad of reasons to cry, the death of an adult she trusted certainly not the least of them. Looking at her she seemed pale and ghostly, but maybe that was just the moonlight. Percival found that while he was concerned, he was not as worried as he might have been for, say, one of his younger nieces or nephews. Modesty had a quality about her that suggested she had weathered worse storms than this.

It also reminded him that, despite their age, it was easy to forget how aware of themselves and their surroundings children could be. He definitely hadn’t seen Gloria and Antoine’s children enough lately, because he found himself remembering that as he sat with Modesty. Children could be very receptive, once you treated them with respect.

“I came by to check on you,” he said. “Someone said you were crying.”

Modesty looked down at her knees. “Only a little,” she said, sounding slightly ashamed. “I had a nightmare. And the lady who came by wouldn’t let me keep any lights on. She said it was going to ruin my sleep.”

“She did, did she?”

Modesty paused, and Percival knew she was wondering whether or not she would be able to say more, if perhaps she would get in trouble. “I was told she was a little sharp with you,” he said, to nudge her on.

Modesty looked out the window. “She told me I was ungrateful,” she said. “And she got mad at me because I didn’t want to eat the soup she gave me. I haven’t been feeling well and my stomach hurt. And then I heard her tell the man watching over me that I was wicked.”

Percival felt his temper flare, but he tamped it down. “Does your stomach still hurt?”

She shook her head. “The man snuck me some bread,” she said, with a wolfish little smile. Percival just looked at her, amused. She reminded him of a childlike version of several women in his life, most of all Gloria. “His name is Brady. He’s nice.”

“Do you want me to leave a light on for you?” he said.

She gnawed a little at her bottom lip. “Could you stay?” she asked. “Until I fall asleep. That’s what the adults at Lady Talon’s did when I had nightmares. Then I would sleep all the way until breakfast.”

“Hm,” he said. “I suppose I can do that. But you’re not falling asleep on the windowsill, alright?” She giggled.

As she hopped down from the sill, she brought the book with her. He recognized it with some surprise as _The Willow Picnic_ , a small storybook about the adventures of a Golden Snidget. The last time he had seen it, it had been sitting on a shelf in Sera’s home; it was one of her and Gloria’s favourite stories from when they were kids, and she read it to her sister’s children whenever they visited. It was unmistakably the same copy – as Modesty scrambled into the bed closest to the window, holding it carefully, he noticed a blotch of ink in the lower left hand corner of the cover and a slight tear on the spine that marked it for what it was.

He felt a strong rush of love and gratitude for his friend. People believed Seraphina ascended to power so young because of her ferocity and her strength, and that was true, yes. But she had the same feelings of loyalty and love for her people that he did and despite the value such a book held to her, she had clearly not hesitated in handing it over to a small orphan girl to keep her company through the long night hours. That was what made her such a good President, that was what made her heroic in Percival’s eyes.

“I fall asleep faster when I read,” Modesty told him, as if imparting a secret. “When I couldn’t sleep at the church I would go through the alphabet. But books are better. Do you know this one?”

“I haven’t read it in some time.” Percival stooped to light the small lantern beside the bed with his wand, then waved his hand over it. The flame turned from orange and amber to a soft, near-white blue, much kinder on the eyes for reading.

Modesty watched him, her eyes glittering. “I can’t wait to do magic,” she said.

“You’ll be going to school soon enough for that,” he said, settling into a chair at the bedside. Before she could ask him further, though, he motioned to the book. “What is the book about, again?”

Modesty opened it to the first page. “I’ll read it to you,” she announced. “It’s better than me telling you about it. It’s really good, though.”

She began to read, slow and halting in some parts, but mostly steady. He had a feeling she read faster in her head, because when she stumbled over the words it was on how they were pronounced. Every now and then she would even ask him how to say a certain word, or what it meant, and he would answer.

Eventually he stopped. Not because he wanted her to learn on her own, or didn’t feel helpful; merely because he fell asleep in the chair.

 

He was nudged awake by the same nurse who had administered his potions – yesterday? Yes, yesterday, because the moonlight in the room had been replaced by a strange, creaky dimness that was a winter morning, where the sun had not yet risen but the rest of the world was already waking up.

“You’re a terrible guardian if you just fall asleep on duty,” she said, dryly.

Percival leaned forward, feeling his back complain from having slept slumped against the chair. “I have complete trust in the safety of this hospital,” he said. He tried to make it sound idle and dismissive, but he yawned, which ruined the whole illusion.

She snorted.

This was not the overnight nurse who had given Modesty a hard time; besides having treated him yesterday, she had the fresh scent of soap about her and her hair still seemed a bit damp from a bath, so she had clearly gone home at night and come in for an early shift. “Are you working here this morning?” he asked, stretching a kink out of his neck.

She nodded. “Just sent Nurse Halliday packing,” she said. “She doesn’t like you very much, by the way. You’re an ‘unapproved guest’. The other fellow on duty tried to tell her you were actually quite important, but she didn’t believe him. Probably because you look terrible.”

He did his best not to laugh, if only because he didn’t want to disturb Modesty, who was fast asleep. The book she had been reading to him was on the floor, and he picked it up and placed it on the bedside table. The girl herself was curled up in the blankets, only her forehead and tumble of blonde hair peeking out.

“Did you read her to sleep?” the nurse asked.

“Other way around, actually,” he replied. “Could you do me a favour? If she wakes up, let her know I’ll be back later this morning.”

She smiled. “I’ll be happy to.”

 

.

 

Hospitals reminded Tina of being a child and losing her parents, and all the sadness that came after, but she also knew there was a lot of good that was done there, a lot of lives saved. Her own, for one.

When she was awake in the night and Queenie had fallen asleep, draped across three chairs she had pushed together, Tina inspected herself. There were bandages all over her stomach, one on her upper thigh, and a few freshly-healed cuts scattered throughout. Presumably those had been the smaller ones the healers were able to close without too much difficulty. She shuddered to think what might be underneath the ones that were bandaged.

Her arms were similarly wrapped and covered, so it was hard to know the exact damage. Would she end up covered in scars _? I suppose that’s what bracelets are for_ , she mused to herself, dryly.

With Queenie asleep, she was free to think about Percival. He must be alright, she reasoned, or else she would have been interrogated within an inch of her life by Aurors as soon as she woke up, right? There would be guards at the door. And Queenie would have told her, just because he was her boss who had accompanied her on the mission – wouldn’t she? Tina remembered him watching over her, telling her he was there for her, but she could not be sure if that was real and not just a fever dream.

She looked again at her arms in the watery moonlight of her room. She was in pain, tired, and a nurse made her drink a variety of foul-smelling potions when she came by with a promise for more in the morning. But it would be worth it if it kept him safe. She was unequivocally in love with the man, and when all of this was over she was going to make sure he knew that.

When she woke again it was to Queenie giving her shoulder a gentle shake, and the scent of tea and toast. “Potions first,” the nurse instructed, much to Tina’s chagrin. “And let’s see the cuts.”

She gave Tina a quick inspection, nodding in approval when she saw the status of the uncovered, mostly-healed cuts on her skin. “They’ll be gone soon enough,” she said. “Your doctor will be in to do a more thorough check, but you’re out of danger.”

“Have I got time to clean myself up?” she asked.

“Sure. Facilities are just down the hall. Do you need a hand?”

“I’ve got her,” Queenie said.

Though Tina felt like she was starving, she only managed to eat half a piece of toast with a bit of butter scraped on it before feeling full. She made sure to at least finish her tea lest Queenie scold her for not getting enough liquids. After that, it was the difficult job of getting her to her feet. She didn’t feel ill, just weak.

Wrapped in a thick robe and leaning heavily on Queenie, they made the journey down the hall and to the showers. They were communal but at least separated out into sections, which made Tina feel a bit better, though there was no one else using them so early in the morning anyway. Queenie nipped out to go scrounge up a new shift or hospital gown for Tina to wear while Tina leaned into the hot water, wincing as it hit her raw cuts. Thankfully, the bandages on her arms and stomach had water repellant charms on them.

She used the hospital issued soap to clean herself up, grimacing as she washed her hair, feeling just how much of it was gone. It wasn’t long before she was weary and weaving on her feet, and she hurriedly rinsed herself off and wrapped herself in a towel before she fell over. She was resting on a bench when Queenie arrived, bearing a hospital gown … and a pair of scissors.

“We can’t use magic on or around you yet,” she said. “Not until your treatment’s done. But I think it’ll come out better this way anyhow.”

There was something soothing about sitting there, her sister standing behind her, scissors wisping about her head. Bits of hair dropped gently to the floor and onto her shoulders and towel, and though Tina could not imagine she had that much hair left on her head to cut, Queenie continued to trim away for what seemed like ages.

It was going to be short and she knew it; she just hoped it wouldn’t be too ridiculous. She’d always had a complicated relationship with her hair. Though she had been overjoyed at the change in fashions and had relished cutting her mane of hair off, she felt like she could never look good unless she put in more effort than she had time for.

“Don’t worry,” Queenie said. She sounded disturbingly gleeful. “This is going to be zero effort on your part, and I think you’re going to look amazing.”

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Tina grumbled.

“No, I’m enjoying it just the right amount.”

Though Tina had rested while Queenie dealt with her hair, it was still awhile before she felt strong enough to get back to her room. By the time she was back in bed, her doctor showed up.

She was a stern woman, with dark skin and hair, and gold flecks in her eyes. Tina had had no idea who had operated on her, seeing as how she had been barely conscious by the time they had brought her in, and had been put under soon after while her injuries were dealt with, but she was soothed to see that she had been treated by someone with such glimmering competence.

“Let’s take a look, then,” she said.

With the aid of her nurse from earlier and Queenie, they peeled back the bandages to see. Tina was startled by the pure violence of what she saw on her own body – the skin was various shades of purple and blue, the cuts jagged. Just looking at them made her tense up, causing a fresh wave of pain to flinch through her muscles, but her doctor only nodded in satisfaction. “Much better,” she said.

They began the arduous process of changing the bandages, during which Tina did her best not to squirm or wriggle about. It wasn’t pain, exactly, but a discomfort that was seeping into her very bones, knowing in more detail what she had managed to do to herself. Her doctor – Mendes, her name was – just watched with a faint understanding.

“It was difficult,” she said, while the nurse worked on the bandages. “Wand wood is very dangerous stuff. It wasn’t so much removing it as stopping a lot of the damage that occurred while it was embedded in your body, and not making it worse. We were able to pull in a consultant at the eleventh hour, though.  How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Tina answered.

“You’ll start to get a bit more energy soon,” Mendes said. “Try to eat as much as you can, drink as much as you can, and absolutely don’t skip any of your potions. But I’m confident in your recovery, Miss Goldstein.”

 

Tina had finally convinced Queenie to go home. It wasn’t that she didn’t want her sister around – actually, being alone in the hospital made her nervous and unsettled – but Queenie looked so bedraggled it hurt Tina’s heart just to look at her. Her sister always prided herself on her appearance and style, but she knew it was secondary to her concern over Tina, so if left unchecked Queenie would soon start to look indistinguishable from a train station tramp.

Tina was able to get Queenie to acquiesce to going home and cleaning up only by pointing out that Tina was just going to be sleeping for hours anyway. She made requests for some fresh clothes, books, and a hand mirror as well, and that finally had Queenie out the door promising to be back as soon as she could.

In the silence of the room, Tina fell back asleep. Her dreams were soft and fleeting, a mixture of past events or strange deliriums like Mendes coming back to check on her and telling her she was getting worse, or that Queenie was still in the hospital even though Tina had expressly told her to go home.

A soft scraping noise woke her up. It was a vase of flowers being straightened out on her bedside table, next to her glass of water. “I’m sorry,” Percival said, softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

This was real, not like her strange dreams that clung to the edge of her mind. It was real because when she turned her head up to look at him he smoothed his hand over her cheek and down her neck and it was warm and comforting and she wanted to cry with relief. “You’re okay,” she breathed, reaching out.

“Tina,” he scolded, as he lowered himself at her bedside, but his eyes were soft, indeed. “You really need to stop worrying about me and more for yourself. Of course I’m alright.”

Up close she saw the blue shadows under his eyes, but he was crisp and neat, hair neatly slicked back and his face cleanshaven. Oh, he was so beautiful. He smoothed his hand over the back of her neck, comfortingly, and she closed her eyes for a moment to relish the sensation. “I’m sorry, Tina,” he said.

“Why?” she murmured.

“You shouldn’t have to save me all the time,” he said. “I should be protecting you, not the other way around.”

“What an idiotic thing to say,” she said, without thinking. She opened her eyes to see him choking back a laugh and it occurred to her that she had never seen him so upset before. She was sorry, not for what she said but for making him worry so much about her, even though she knew by now that Percival always worried, no matter what. It was a part of who he was.

He nodded. “I suppose that’s true,” he said. “I am rather an idiot.”

“I know,” she teased. She reached up and touched the back of his hand. “You haven’t even kissed me, yet.”

Instead of answering, he simply leaned in. The touch of his lips was so familiar and comforting, and for a moment all of Tina’s thoughts and worries fled as she focused on kissing him back. Goosebumps prickled their way down the back of her neck. “Come up on the bed?” she whispered against his mouth.

“I have to go soon.”

“Still.”

He moved around to the other side, where there was space, and carefully climbed onto the bed beside her. She leaned back against him; even though she was under the covers, and he on top of them, it was more soothing than she could say at feeling the solid warmth of his body against her back. “This is more difficult than that time I was shot,” he remarked, dryly, as he attempted to find a place to touch her that was nowhere near a bandage or healing cut. He settled with stroking her hip.

“You were smart enough to only get one wound,” she agreed. Laying her cheek against the pillow, she finally looked at the vase of flowers he had placed next to her bed. Violets with sprays of lavender. “Thank you for the flowers.”

“You’ll be getting more from quite a few admirers, so I wanted to get in there first,” he said. She snorted. “No, truly.”

“I bet you turned away all the flowers everyone sent you, when you were in hospital.”

“I sent them all to the children’s ward,” he agreed. “I didn’t want any sympathy for my failures.”

She lightly slapped the back of his hand, which was in easy reach from its spot on her hip. “Always so hard on yourself.”

“So are you,” he countered. “You think you’re not going to get flowers.”

“Why would I?”

She felt him shake his head, and then kiss the top of her shoulder.  “I like your hair,” he said.

“Really?”

“Truly.”

“It’s still red, though.”

“Still red,” he sighed in agreement. Then: “I should go. I need to check on Modesty, and then after… I don’t know.”

“The President needs you,” Tina said, not requiring an explanation. He was the Director; while she would have given anything to make him stay with her a few minutes longer, he needed to get to work. She did not envy him the tasks that lay ahead, but she would help him as soon as she was up and able. “You’ve got a lot to do, Mr Graves.”

“And you need to heal up, Goldstein. I’m going to need your input on the case.”

“Oh, the files,” she said, suddenly remembering. “I dropped them in the swamp, in my handbag, just outside the Rawley’s home. My wand is with them, too.”

Percival shifted, sitting up in bed, looking down at her. “I’ll have someone retrieve them,” he said. He sounded pleased. “That was good thinking. I was wondering where you stashed them.”

“I’m a sneaky woman.”

“You’re an Auror,” he replied. “One of our best.”

She took his hand, rubbing her thumb against his palm. For a moment, he looked very distracted. “I have to tell Queenie about us now,” she said, carefully. She knew he had promised to be completely open about his relationship with her when things got back to normal, but so much had happened; perhaps things had changed. She had to account for that.

But Percival just smiled and she knew that was one thing he truly wanted to hear. “I agree,” he said. “As soon as you wish, Goldstein.”


	27. job talk

She was willing to bet good money that he was the most beautiful man in the hospital. He was dressed entirely in black; the sort of rich, soft-looking shade that spoke of wealth but not extravagance. Though time had left some creases around his eyes and mouth, his jaw was as straight as ever, his blonde hair perfectly parted and combed. The fedora made him look rakish but nothing could take away from the noble tilt of his chin or the commanding set of his shoulders.

As far as Seraphina was concerned, Lawrence Talon embodied the best of the aristocratic world with none of the faults. He spared no expense for friends or family, and used his power and wealth to great effect. While the Talons were now well-known for their philanthropy they were industrialists at heart, and Lawrence had taken the reigns of the family’s business interests, especially after his eldest sister – the original inheritor – was shot down in the Great War.

“Sera,” he greeted, as they exchanged kisses on the cheek when she met him just outside the morgue. Closer to him now, she noticed his eyes were slightly red-rimmed. “You look well.”

Lawrence Talon did not lie, so she felt slightly comforted by that. Her rest at Gloria’s had done her some good. “Thank you,” she said. She felt powerless, a surprisingly common feeling as the President. There was so much she could do – and yet, so much she could not.

Together, they pushed open the doors to the morgue. “Are you sure you want to see him?” she asked.

“Yes.” He paused. “Have you?”

“I have.”

“Then I must as well.”

Seraphina knew what Lawrence was about to see, but there was no way to prepare anyone for the sight of a dead loved one. Even before the war Lawrence and James had been much like brothers; Lawrence seemed to understand that James’ sensitivities were strengths instead of weaknesses. It was natural that he would be the one to deal with funeral preparations and all the arrangements that came after.

The morgue was kept cool, and there was no scent of chemicals that would have permeated a similar place in a No-Maj facility. Still, the _absence_ of scent disturbed Seraphina, making her suspect there was something lurking under the surface, just out of reach of her natural senses.

Seraphina waited while Lawrence was led away by a mortician. She wasn’t sure how long she waited, but she had a feeling it felt twice as long as it actually was.

When he returned, his hat was in his hands. “Have you time for a cup of coffee?” he asked, calmly.

Seraphina would happily spare as much time as he needed, but unfortunately she had made prior arrangements. She checked the nearest clock. “I’m to meet Percival Graves in my office within the hour. If you don’t object to his inevitable arrival…?”

“The arrival of Percival Graves in most matters is always inevitable,” Lawrence replied, dryly.

 

Grief affected everyone differently. For Seraphina, she was still in shock; but for Lawrence he seemed to be grieving even as he went through the motions of carrying everything on. He _wore_ it just underneath the surface, and even though the things he was saying might have been perceived as cold, she knew better. Sometimes, only progress could promote healing.

“We will arrange for a memorial service as soon as we can,” he said, tapping his spoon against the rim of his coffee cup and then setting it aside. As calm as he was acting there was a tense sort of despair surrounding him that she politely ignored. “Public, of course. Will you speak?”

“I can,” she said.

“We’ll use it as a fundraising opportunity, I think. That will be the best way to drum up interest and we can take advantage of the calamity by funnelling more money into the home. I’ve yet to put this past Grandmother, but I’m certain she will agree.”

Lady Talon was once a frightening woman, but she was quite, quite old by now. She rarely went out in public and left the family interests to Lawrence and James. While she might show herself for the funeral, Seraphina doubted she had the strength to go back to the Home for Lost Souls. “Who will be running the home now?” she asked.

Lawrence set down his cup, and raised his eyebrows. “I will,” he said.

“Lawrence.”

“There is no one else, Sera,” he said, frankly. “My aunt and uncle have the organizational drive of a herd of sheep, Grandmother is so old I swear she’s half petrified, and my parents have been “missing” for thirteen years on safari.” He didn’t seem upset by the last fact but, then again, the popular theory was that Lawrence’s parents had simply taken too well to their travels and decided not to come back.

“You’ll need to find a partner, soon,” Seraphina said – very, very carefully. “Might I suggest you find one with business acumen alongside a good heart? Then you might parcel out responsibilities.”

Lawrence grinned at her over his coffee. “Are you volunteering, Madame President?”

She laughed, glad he was taking it in stride so well when, she knew, he must be very upset about it. “I think my childbearing days are over,” she said. “And the idea of marriage has always chafed at me.”

“You know I feel the same, but I’m afraid as the last heir, I have no option now.” He sighed. “I was always counting on James to get married. Who wouldn’t want to marry him? I bet you’d have even married him, had he asked you nicely enough.”

“Well he wouldn’t have done it over coffee, I know that much.”

He made a _tch_ sound, but he didn’t deny it.

There was a knock at the door. “If that’s you, Graves, just come in,” Sera called.

The door opened and there he was. Seraphina was pleased to see he was back to being his dapper self, though he did look sleep-deprived. Lawrence lolled back in his seat, looking over his shoulder to give Percival an appreciative once over.

“Lord Talon,” Percival greeted.

“Call me that again, and I will be forced to call you ‘Lord Graves’,” Lawrence replied. Percival flinched.

“Fair enough.” He stepped forward and they firmly shook hands. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“Am I interrupting anything important?”

“We were just discussing picking out a proper wife for Lawrence,” Seraphina said.

Percival’s eyebrows jumped up about half an inch. “As in a _woman_?” he said.

“You sound shocked.”

“Because I am shocked.” His mouth twisted slightly in disapproval. “Has this anything to do with needing to ‘further the lineage’ or something equally frivolous?”

“Something like that,” Lawrence said.

Percival, mercifully, held his tongue as Lawrence got to his feet. “It was good to see you, Sera,” he said, taking her hand. “I’ll send an owl about speaking at the service, but when next we meet I’m afraid it will have to be a business meeting. I would be grateful if you would attend as well, Mr Graves.”

Percival looked doubtful. “I would be honoured,” he said. “But I have little business sense.”

“Even so.” Lawrence plucked up his fedora, smoothed his hair back and placed it atop his head. “Now, I’ve undertakers to visit. Good day to you both.”

“I know he doesn’t mean it,” Percival said, once the door was closed and he was settled in the chair Lawrence had just abandoned. “But whenever he says goodbye you get the strange feeling you’ve just been dismissed.”

“You do the same thing,” Sera pointed out, starting to clear some of the tea things from her desk, uncovering files and folders.

“I do?”

She made an affirmative noise in the back of her throat, but didn’t spare any more time on small talk. “Antoine told me you got some sleep and have a clean bill of health, so we can get started without you dropping dead. The Aurors have been working on clearing themselves of suspicion, from top to bottom, so we have a good working list of who we can trust to carry the investigations forward. Luckily, despite how large the leak was, it was confined to only a few individuals, all of them in custody. It’s going to be a long investigation.”

“I hear from the newspapers that I’ve been reinstated, formally.”

“You have,” she agreed. “Why? You still want your job, don’t you?”

She said it as a joke; it was _meant_ to be a joke. But to her surprise, Percival paused before answering. “I suppose, yes,” he said.

But Seraphina was not about to let such a statement slide. She set her quill down on the parchment in front of her, folded her hands on the desk. “What do you mean, Percival?” she asked, calmly.

He waved his hand. “Never mind. We can discuss it later.”

“Later?” She felt blood rush to her cheeks. Sometimes it was as if her body got annoyed with him before her mind did, like it knew what was coming. “I’ve reinstated you, Percival, publicly, but you were never really on leave. You have been doing your job; why, suddenly, is that not good enough for you?”

Now _he_ was looking annoyed, which was a bit closer to how she felt, personally. “You’re being dramatic,” he said. “I told you, we can talk about this later.”

“No,” she said. “ _You_ brought it up. We are talking about this now.”

He threw his hands in the air, as if she were the one being unreasonable. “I did not.”

“Damn it, Percival,” she snapped. “Say what you really mean. What is going on? This is your career, and you know I’ve always supported you in it. If there is something you’re unhappy with, I want to know. As your colleague, and friend.”

He shook his head. “It’s not…” he trailed off, paused. “I love my work, Sera. I always have.”

 _No_. This was not happening. Feeling light-headed, Sera picked up her cup of coffee and took a sip, trying to compose her thoughts. When she didn’t say anything, he continued. “I am starting to feel that… it isn’t conducive to my life, right now. On a personal level.”

“Is this about Goldstein?” she burst out, unable to contain herself. His look of surprise might have amused her if she wasn’t so angry. Of course, she knew he was in love with her; she knew what Percival Graves looked like when he was in love, she was probably one of the few people who did. And it wasn’t like Goldstein was a mystery, either. “It is, isn’t it?”

“What about Goldstein?” he demanded.

Oh, he was good, he really was; anyone else might not have seen it. But Seraphina could, there, in the brief flicker of his eyelashes, and at the corner of his mouth: nerves. “You’re involved with Goldstein, Percival,” she said. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Sera-”

“No,” she said, jabbing an accusing finger towards him. “I know you. And you’re not fool enough to sleep with a co-worker, especially a subordinate, just because you feel like it. So, you must be emotionally involved. And now what? You’re going public?”

“Well.” That was all he said.

“I appreciate that you respect her enough you’re not going to keep her hidden in a closet,” Sera said. “I do. But that needn’t affect your job, or your work. You’ve had relationships before. Public ones,” she added, since their own past together had certainly never seen the light of day. “They’ve never affected your work.”

Percival crossed his arms over his chest and cast his gaze upwards. For a moment he looked very, very tired. “I’m not worried about my career,” he said, after a moment, quietly.

Sera blinked at him, confused, and then it clicked. “Goldstein’s?” she asked. It made sense; being involved with the Director of Magical Security at the same time she returned as an Auror with flying colours would send the gossip mill into turmoil. “You don’t want anyone to think she slept her way into a promotion and our good graces.”

“Not to be crude, but. Yes. Among other things. It might hinder any future opportunities for her.”

“So you’re bombing your own career because one of your Aurors turned your head,” she stated, somewhat acidly. “What do you plan on doing? Resigning?”

She was rewarded by the faint reddening of his cheeks. “Only as Head of the Department, and then Goldstein and I would no longer have bearing on each other’s movements,” he said. Remarkably, his voice was very calm. “I would remain Director of Magical Security and perhaps focus my attention elsewhere.”

It made sense, somewhat. If he left the Department of Magical Law Enforcement he would no longer have administrative sway or command of any Aurors or related employees, and he would be removed from the daily movements of the office – but remaining Director kept him involved politically. He would be able to remain at MACUSA, perhaps switch departments. The ICW had been petitioning him for the last two years, she knew.

“Absolutely not,” Sera said, frankly.

He stared at her. “What was that?” he asked, a note of irritation in his voice.

“I refuse to accept any resignation on your part,” she said, frankly. “You are Head of that Department and my Director of Magical Security, and you will maintain both of those positions while I am President. Unless, of course, you are ousted as Director should your policies no longer conform with the majority of MACUSA’s directives. But I can’t control popularity, you know that.”

Percival was looking at her as if she had told him she was going to quit MACUSA and become a fan dancer.

“So,” Sera continued, when he didn’t speak. “Are we clear?”

“Sera,” he said. “You can’t just _not_ accept a resignation because you don’t agree.”

“I can, I’m President,” she snapped. He opened his mouth angrily to speak but she talked over him. “You always think you know everything and you’ve thought of everything and then you make your decision, but this doesn’t just affect you, me, and Goldstein. It affects MACUSA. It affects people who rely on your direction and your support to keep everyone safe.”

He was flushing an angry red. “I know that,” he said, lowly. “However-“

“No!” she burst out, smacking her hands down on her desk so hard the china of her coffee set rattled. “Get this through your thick skull, Percival Graves: you quit when I say you can quit. Got it?”

“You’re a goddamn _dictator_ , you know that?” he snapped, getting to his feet. “And if I want to resign, Sera, I will.”

“Like. Hell.” She said.

“May I be excused from this meeting, Madame President?” he snarled.

“Yes, get out,” she said, with feeling. “Don’t come back here until you unstick your head from your ass.”

Percival opened the door. “It’s a good thing this is your last term because like _Hell_ I am voting for you again,” he said, loudly enough to carry down the entire hallway, for half the office to hear.

“You are _dismissed_ , Mr Graves,” she all but shouted. He slammed the door. “Idiot,” she muttered to the empty room. She felt like crying with frustration.

Instead she checked her schedule and got on with the next order of business.

 

.

 

Tina was starting to feel better. When she woke up again, having fallen back asleep after Percival left, she felt more refreshed than tired.

Unsurprisingly, Queenie was back. She always got away with not going to work when she didn’t want to, seeing as how Abernathy had such a soft spot for her. She had brought Tina several dresses, apparently, only to have them shot down as options by one of the nurses.

“I get it,” Queenie sighed, as her sewing needle flashed through the latest dress for Modesty. She directed it with her hands, but used magic to keep up a steady speed. “I mean, they need to be able to check on your injuries frequently and I guess the dress gets in the way, but they can’t expect you to receive visitors in a sheet.”

“Visitors,” Tina snorted.

Queenie frowned. “I’ve turned three people away already,” she said. “You need your rest.”

“What?” Tina started. “Who?”

“A girl who knew you from New Orleans,” Queenie said, carefully; Tina knew that her sister had not come by that information from a conversation. “She was with a man, I don’t know who. And one of your Auror friends.”

Tina laid back against the pillows, her thoughts carefully schooled. Queenie was not looking at her. They both knew her ability to see minds was made stronger with eye contact, loose focus and careless thinking – she picked up stray bits and pieces, very rarely fully formed thoughts unless she was in a direct conversation with someone – but she and Tina had always had a particularly strong connection.

“I want to tell you something,” Tina said, looking at the ceiling. “Promise not to make a fuss.”

“What is it?” Her sister’s voice was tinged with worry.

Tina decided to just be straight with Queenie – honestly, there was no other way. “I’ve fallen in love,” she said, glancing aside at her sister.

Queenie frowned. “How?” she asked. “You’ve been away – _oh, what_?” she gasped, dropping her sewing project. “ _Tina_! But he’s-”

There was a sharp rap at the door.

“Good morning – no, afternoon.” It was Antoine, much to Tina’s surprise and delight, though her feelings where somewhat overshadowed by the way Queenie was still staring at her, mouth agape. “I hope I’m not interrupting something?”

“Of a sort,” Tina said. She had to admit – being able to shock and surprise Queenie was a rare pleasure for her, so she was going to enjoy it as much as she could. Was it cruel to throw Queenie a few more, now that the opportunity was presenting itself? Maybe, but sisters were as much saviours as the bane to each other’s existence, and Queenie was no exception. As it was, this was some form of sibling payback. “But that’s alright. Can I help you with anything?”

“Well, about that-” he began, before being pushed unceremoniously into the room so that Gloria – who had been standing in the hallway, unseen – could bustle in after him.

“Out of the way, handsome,” she said. Tina had to take a moment to marvel at her: she was glowing, all warm smiles and dressed impeccably in lurid shades of purple, offset by charcoal grey (style, apparently, ran in the family). A stitched cloth bag dangled from one hand. “Oh, Tina, I hope my dropping in is alright. Is this your sister? She’s as lovely as you are. Come here, dear,” she exclaimed, swooping down on the still startled Queenie and placing two kisses to her cheeks. “I’m Gloria.”

“I have to get back to work, love,” Antoine said, hovering at the door. “You’re not going to cause some kind of an incident, are you?”

“No more than usual.”

“Hrm.” Antoine cast his gaze over Tina. “You’re looking very well,” he said. “Please, tell no one I was here.” And with that, he shut the door.

Tina blinked in confusion, looking to Gloria for answers. The other woman gave her a secretive smile. “You’re not allowed visitors just yet,” she said. “But surely I don't count, being the wife of a physician?”

“Did you get him to sneak you in?” Tina laughed.

“Your doctor is one of the best, but a bit of a pill,” Gloria said, with a wink. “She’s strict. She helped treat Percival after Grindelwald was exposed and she actually managed to keep him under heel, if you can believe it.” She seated herself on the side of Tina’s bed, facing Queenie, smiling. “My husband tries to avoid her.”

“That man that let you in?” Queenie asked, politely, since she didn’t have to be a mind reader to figure that one out.

Gloria hummed in acknowledgement. “He was telling me you had some trouble with the nurses,” she said.

This was the correct theme to bring Queenie back into the thick of things, Tina thought wryly, as she watched her sister’s cheeks flush in indignation. “She’ll be allowed visitors soon enough and we can’t let her get them looking like _this_ ,” she said, waving her hand to encompass the entirety of Tina.

“Her hair is quite nice.”

“Thank you,” Queenie said, mollified. “I did it myself.”

“Well,” Gloria said, opening the bag she had brought in with her. “I’ve had eight children and I can tell you, after the third one you start getting the hang of how to look stylish when you can’t even walk.”

She produced a robe – not a witch's robe, but the sort of luxurious housecoat worn by wealthy No-Maj women entertaining close friends in their parlours. Having seen Gloria at her sultry housewife best on New Year’s morning, Tina was willing to bet the robe belonged to her.

Queenie beamed with approval. “That’s perfect. It will bring out her eyes.”

“By the way,” Tina said, feeling that Queenie’s stupefaction from earlier hadn’t lasted nearly long enough for her taste. “Gloria is best friends with Percival.”

“What?”

“ _And_ she’s the President’s sister,” she added.

“Tina!” Queenie exclaimed. “What did you _do_ when you were gone?”

“Don’t tease your sister, Tina; though believe me, I know how tempting it is,” Gloria said, her voice stern but her face anything but. “Put some real clothes on, and I’ll call for tea.”

An hour passed, and then another. In that time Tina went through another check up, drank more potions, and ate two pieces of jam and toast under Gloria and Queenie’s watchful gazes. Soon, though, she found herself beginning to tire; her eyes were drifting shut under the soothing noise of Gloria and Queenie’s pleasant chatter. She found herself gazing through her eyelashes at the flowers Percival had left beside her bed, thinking about the sort of things he might be doing.

She heard a light knock on the door, registered that someone else had entered. Her doctor, she assumed; she didn’t stir.

“Are you awake, Goldstein?”

Her eyes fluttered open and she gazed with surprise at the President, who stood at the foot of her bed.

“She needs rest, Sera,” Gloria said, softly. “Do let her be.”

“I’m awake, ma’am,” Tina murmured, beginning to prop herself up in bed. She stopped when Seraphina held up a hand.

“No need to stand at attention or any other foolishness,” she said. “I just wanted to speak with you a moment, Goldstein. About work. Could you give us a moment, Gloria, Miss Goldstein?”

Queenie respectfully got to her feet and began to drift out towards the hall, but Gloria lingered, murmuring into Seraphina’s ear. The sisters locked eyes for a moment, but Sera smiled faintly. “It’s all fine,” she said.

Apparently placated, Gloria left.

“Did you want a report?” Tina asked, yet again trying to sit up; yet again, the President made a motion telling her not to bother.

“I’ve gotten all I need from everyone else on the case for now, thank you, Goldstein,” Seraphina said. She lowered herself in the chair recently vacated by Queenie, carefully moving aside the pile of sewing. Tina entertained a somewhat treasonous thought of what would have happened had the President sat on a sewing needle, before quickly sweeping the thoughts away lest they showed on her face.

“Then what do you need?” she asked. “You said it was about work.”

“It is,” the President agreed. She clasped her hands on her knees and leaned forward slightly. She managed to make the hospital room take on the grand airs of her office with that simple movement. “You’ve accomplished a great many things in the past few weeks, Goldstein.”

Tina nodded, guardedly. “Thank you.”

“And I am aware you have impressed Director Graves, as well.”

She felt her face heating up and her heart start to pound. Had he said something? He might have; when he had given her leave to speak of their relationship, she had technically given it to him as well. But Seraphina didn’t look mad, or amused, or concerned, or…

Seraphina just looked the way she always did: like the damn President.

“Thank you,” Tina managed.

“I’ve no interest in driving you to exhaustion – at least not before you’re well and fully healed and ready to take it on again,” she amended. “But I wanted to make some things very clear to you in these quiet days before the storm.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Oh, stop looking like you’re on the executioner’s block,” Seraphina suddenly said, with an abrupt flash of emotion. That is to say, she rolled her eyes at Tina. “I’m promoting you.”

Well, she certainly hadn’t been expecting _that_. “You’re – excuse me, ma’am?”

“I came here to discuss your career options, obviously,” the President said, annoyed. “What did you think I was doing here?”

“Firing me?” Tina guessed.

“And risk the Ministry of Magic recruiting you across the pond?” the President asked, looking absolutely disgusted at the thought. “Oh, Goldstein. I’d rather be eaten alive by a dragon before I let the British get away with something like that. No, you’re staying firmly on American soil for now. Yes?”

It took a moment for Tina to realize the President was waiting for an answer. “Oh. Yes.” When Seraphina looked unconvinced, she added. “I’m here for as long as you need me, Madame President.”

She watched a smile slowly curl along the other woman’s face. It was like a sunrise, only much rarer. “Good,” she said. “Very good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing Sera and Percival's argument, omfg. One of these days I will actually write out some of their backstory from when they were young idiots in their twenties.
> 
> This chapter took me awhile for some silly reason, I don't know. I'm also going to try to get another one up before I leave for DragonCon at the end of the month. Absolutely no writing will be done there; I will be too busy drinking and being talked out of shenanigans by my more sensible companions.
> 
> More OCs popping up recently! Again, I swear there is a purpose to them. Also if you're wondering what a ridiculously beautiful man like Lawrence looks like, just google 'Michael Fassbender'.
> 
> Just in case anyone thinks it's silly that Queenie didn't realize Tina was involved with Percival, Ima go through my logic in a bit more detail. According to the sources, Legilimens are at their most effective when experiencing direct eye contact (if you go back a couple chapters there's a part where Percival instinctively avoids eye contact with Queenie); they also don't just read thoughts but also see images, understand truths and lies, etc. I thought it made sense that Queenie's ability worked best in 1. direct conversation where thoughts were being projected outwards to her and 2. around unorganized minds. She is also not infallible and sometimes makes mistakes, according to JKR. So even if she were to pick up on Tina's concern for Percival, she may not fully understand it as a romantic response.  
> People with deep magical discipline like Percival and Seraphina are like the equivalent of a closed door; Queenie can open it, but she chooses not to. Tina is more like a house made entirely out of windows, hahahaha, but she can still hide stuff when needed - especially if she refuses to think about it or projects other things outward. Queenie has a natural gift but she isn't a snoop! <3 Nor is she a terrible person, since people like Voldemort used Legilimency to control minds and torture people into madness. NOT QUEENIE, THO. QUEENIE IS GOOD. This is how Tina gets away with willfully knowing she has a mind reader around without feeling too guilty about it, because the ethical and security problems behind that would be a nightmare if Queenie misbehaved.
> 
> And! At a reader's request, I am gonna link my tumblr again. I am vodkertonic.tumblr.com and I post many, many Hiddles.


	28. recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly longer chapter to apologize for the long time between updates!

The only thing that stopped Percival from holding a cigarette all day was the fact that some of his Aurors claimed the scent drove them ill; otherwise he was sure the day would be spent barking orders from within a cloud of smoke. As it was, his office was officially a no-go zone in that regard, so he found himself out amongst the desks in Major Crimes whenever he needed to tally some of the reports he was receiving.

Marcos, one of the aforementioned smoke-free Aurors, had already done some fantastic work on Irene Taxley. “There were a lot of warning signs,” she said, excitedly. Her desk was absolutely covered in papers, Taxley’s face blinking out from several employee photos, in between reports authored by the young woman herself. Well, co-authored; as a trainee most of her work was edited and altered by her more experienced colleagues who worked on the case with her. When you were a trainee, grunt work was the name of the game. “Some of the language she uses in the first drafts for these – this is stuff her mentor had to change to be palatable. She’s particularly unrepentant to any No-Maj who strays across MACUSA’s path. It’s subtle but it’s there.”

“That’s a stretch,” Percival said, frowning.

Marcos wasn’t fazed. “There’s her background; pureblood, as the Brits call it,” she said. “Her instructors for Auror training noted her preference for offensive spells as opposed to defensive, and she had a higher aptitude than normal for the heavier stuff. She was chided for injuring another trainee during sparring using a non-regulated charm and written up, but that was her only offense at that time.”

“How long has she been with us?”

“Well, once she was finished her pre-training and officially became a member of the department…” she fussed around with the papers on her desk. Percival waited impatiently. “Aha! That was December 1925. She was assigned to Detroit until there was a bit of fuss, but nothing that went on the books. I sent a message over there to ask what happened and apparently she and her mentor didn’t see eye to eye and she requested she get sent to New Orleans. From there she seemed to excel. That was in February.”

“Who was her mentor?”

She checked the paper. “Cara Fitzroy?”

He nodded. Fitzroy was a grizzled old woman with no patience for anybody; reassigning one of her trainees was not wholly shocking – he was surprised anyone had bothered to give her a trainee in the first place. “Go on.”

“She mostly flew under the radar with Chief Higgles, but the work she turned up was quite good. This is where the majority of her reports come in from.”

“I sense you’re leading up to something, Marcos.”

She beamed. “For two months she wrote up all the reports for Jack Horace.”

“He might have noticed her anti No-Maj tendencies and recruited her,” Percival noted. “So we might have to start with him.”

“Vidal’s already been digging.”

“Any interrogations yet?”

“We were waiting for you, sir.”

Percival thoughtfully rubbed at his chin. “Vidal can take a crack at Horace if he wants,” he said. “Horace has been with us long enough that it won’t matter how much time he has to stew, he won’t give up information easily, so the sooner we work on him the better. As for Nesbitt and Taxley, ignore them for now. Maybe that will put a good enough dent in their pride that they’ll be more likely to lose composure under questioning.”

“How long?”

“Taxley can sit in a dark room for weeks for all I care,” Percival said, frankly. “But I’m supposing the sooner the better, for the President’s peace of mind. We’ll play it by ear. A couple of days, perhaps.”

She nodded. “Got it.”

There were good people in the Department, and they took the work thrown their way with vigour. But as Percival became acquainted with their progress during his rounds he noticed something else going on around him.

There was an air of desperate redemption that hung over the heads of the Aurors; after all, Percival had been replaced by Grindelwald beneath their very noses. He had no intention in holding that mistake against any of them, but that certainly didn’t stop them from punishing themselves with guilt and shame. He saw it in the way they worked and reported to him, how they were a bit awkward at first, or hesitant in telling him what they thought.

The best way to go about it, he believed, was to carry on as things were. He did not doubt their abilities any less than he had before he had been taken, after all. Individual mistakes were one thing, but a city-wide hoodwink by a dark wizard was an entirely different matter. The more strongly Percival pushed for a return to business as usual, the quicker the rest of the department would fall into line. The last thing he wanted was for trained Aurors to second guess their choices for the remainder of the year. That was dangerous.

With the team working so eagerly, Percival took advantage of his free time to get through the large stacks of paperwork and reporting that had been allowed to pile up. Halfway through his third pile of paperwork, he paused to light a cigarette and send out a request for more coffee.

Vidal knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer. “Sir,” he said, and blinked.

“Yes?” Percival asked, patiently.

“Sir, you are going to die in here with this much smoke.”

“Noted, Sebastian. What do you need?”

“Ah, well,” Sebastian scratched at the back of his neck. “The president is here.”

Naturally, the rumour mill being what it was, the fact that Percival and Madame Picquery had gotten into an argument less than a day into his reinstatement had not taken long to spread. The subject of the argument, however, was mercifully absent from the gossip. “She’s free to come in and see me,” he said. “That’s more or less her power as president.”

“Actually,” Vidal said. “She’s making an announcement to all of the Aurors and she, ah, requested your presence. Major Crimes.”

Percival stubbed out his cigarette. “I see. I’ll be there in a moment.”

What was she playing at? Unless, of course, she was playing at nothing. The trouble with having Seraphina as his friend was that it was sometimes unclear whether she was doing something to purposefully annoy him, or just didn’t _care_ that it annoyed him. It was usually the latter, but she was known to have her bursts of spite.

While he wasn’t exactly attached to his work, he did resent the interruption and the summons. Getting to his feet, he slipped on his suit jacket and headed out the door.

He heard pleasant chatter ahead, which for some reason made him very suspicious. As he stood in one of the open doorways leading into Major Crimes, he noted it was indeed only Aurors assembled, or at least everyone who was not out in the field. They were talking amongst themselves in a pleasant, jovial air; he saw why as soon as he caught sight of Seraphina at the other end of the room, smiling at a pair of senior Aurors speaking with her. When Seraphina looked pleased, that was a sign that everything was going to fine.

Just maybe not for Percival.

“Ah, Mr Graves,” she said from across the room, raising her voice when she caught sight of him. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“I’m here to serve, Madame President,” Percival replied, propping himself casually up in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame. “I hope I didn’t delay anything.”

“Not at all.” She elegantly held both hands in the air, as if to call for silence; but frankly the entire room had shushed the moment she had started speaking to Percival. “I don’t want to prevent anyone from their investigations, especially now that we’ve made so much progress. But I want to make sure each and every one of you know just how much I value your commitment to this organization, and this country. We’re all the safer for you.

“So this won’t be a long speech or anything ridiculous like that – I’m going to save that for later. I’m just here to make a few announcements which are too important – and a bit too personal – to be sent out via departmental memo. Just between us, you understand.”

She was still smiling. Percival waited.

“It’s been a rough month for all of us,” Seraphina said. “After Grindelwald escaped custody, it felt like we were back at the start, and worse off after realizing we had failed our Director of Magical Security.”

She looked him right in the eye, her smile gone. That was what made Sera so powerful as a speaker, because despite their argument, and his own misgivings about what she was doing, he knew – everyone who looked at her knew – that she was telling the truth. “I count that as one of my worst failures in this presidency, and I know you count it as a failure in your own careers as well. Mr Graves himself, due to his generous nature, has told me he considers us to be blameless, but I do not believe that changes any sense of duty and responsibility we feel.”

There were murmurs of assent. None of his Aurors were looking at him: only Sera, her eyes large and calm, fearlessly maintained eye contact. In moments she had the Aurors at ease, and then uncomfortable; and he watched her swing the pendulum again, effortlessly in control of her audience. “Today I wanted to impress upon you how lucky you are to have guidance from one of the best wizards of our time. Please do not take it for granted, and work hard – as I know you will – to earn his respect, as he has earned yours so many times over.”

She clapped her hands and the tension was broken with her smile. “So my arrival here today is to tell you, in person, how pleased I am with this investigation, and to tell you that I have been informed you are all invited to a rather exclusive soiree next week. You deserve it.”

Percival raised his eyebrows at her, but she was ignoring him. Really? A party?

“I want you to take the opportunity to celebrate the successes of this department – but also the actions of one individual in particular, who has shown that hard work and dedication is more important than inborn talent, a family name, or even a spotless reputation,” she continued.

Percival froze.

“Tina Goldstein was set to be reinstated the moment she relieved Gellert Grindelwald of his wand, not to mention her actions in exposing the threat unbeknownst to us all,” Seraphina stated, a look of warm pride suffusing her face. Genuine, Percival knew; Seraphina had been the one to simply reassign Tina, rather than fire her from MACUSA outright. She knew there had been something worth keeping around. “And at my request she secretly embarked on a dangerous investigation, one that almost killed her. I know you’ve been gossiping about it, so to set your minds at ease: she is going to be fine. But in reviewing her files and reports I have come to the conclusion that there is no place for her here anymore.”

Percival prepared himself to object, but it was Seline Marcos who let out a startled ‘What?’ before covering her mouth, looking worried and abashed.

But Seraphina was still smiling.

“I’m sorry, Mr Graves,” she continued. “I’ve had to go over your head on this one. Reinstatement isn’t enough; this morning I recommended Goldstein for promotion and it has been approved through the proper channels. Since there is no room for the position in New York she has been offered to several other offices across the country, all of whom are very interested in her joining their teams. Please, take advantage of the celebration to give Miss Goldstein your best, whatever she chooses.

“Finally, I have no reservations about telling you that the celebration was arranged, not by myself, but a very famous figure in wizarding society who has been impressed with Goldstein’s work and would like to meet her coworkers. Do yourself a favour – dress in your best.”

The dismissal was clear in her voice, and within moments the gathered Aurors began to scatter.

“A promotion,” Marcos said, as she passed Percival on her way back to her desk. “Well, she definitely deserves it, don’t you think, Mr Graves?”

Percival didn’t answer, simply stared at Seraphina, who smiled back in a very catlike manner. “A word, Madame President?” he requested, tone flat, as she approached him.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I think I have a few minutes to spare.”

 

“What in the goddamn Hell, Sera?”

Seraphina lounged back in the chair where his Aurors usually sat, waving away a cloud of cigarette smoke. He had lit up another one and was glaring daggers, but she seemed rather unaffected. “This is the difference between us, Perce,” she said. “You’re damn smart, but sometimes you fall into that trap successful men can’t help making: the first right decision that occurs to them.”

“What?” he asked, exasperated, before deciding to change tack. “I see what you’ve done and I disagree. You’re oversimplifying things. Putting her in a different office doesn’t mean I’m no longer her superior-”

“So?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

“I’m going to slap you,” he warned. She just laughed. “So you promote her and it looks like – what? It wasn’t my idea?”

“Of course,” she said, smiling. “Your reports of her so far are quite glowing. I’m sure you would have made the recommendation to me in writing soon enough, and I would have backed it anyway – but you haven’t just yet.”

“So a clean paper trail, that’s your solution? Sera, MACUSA has idiots, but most of them aren’t in my offices,” he pointed out. “When Tina and I are public about our affections, they’ll put two and two together.”

“Right,” she said. “That’s your assumption of _their_ assumption: that Tina traded sexual favours for career advancement. And since you and I are publicly friends, certainly it won’t be difficult for everyone to make a connection – that maybe you asked me to promote Tina as a gesture of friendship and I agreed.”

Percival fell silent, because Seraphina was voicing his thoughts – which meant she was about to tell him how wrong he was.

“Yes?” she prodded.

“What are you up to?” he asked, finally.

“See, sometimes your logic is a little too linear, and abhorrently masculine,” Seraphina said. “I’ve always been better with the politics of people, especially when it comes to myself and how they see me. _Your_ problem has been that you’re too humble to understand how impressive people find you, and it snowballs from there. Also, you’re a man, but you can’t help that.

“Right now all anyone sees from the outset is my glowing endorsement of Tina, which she has earned – it won’t take long for stories of what she’s done to start spreading. Remember when you started making waves, when you were younger? Soon everyone is going to find out she saved your life multiple times – how she almost died doing it the last time.”

“Your point?” he said. “Please. We’re growing old.”

“My _point_ is that Tina’s promotion is obviously earned – and it will have the added bonus of following my own personal whims, which will be revealed over time,” she said.

“And those whims?”

“Well, after all she’s done for you, you’re growing fond of Goldstein – you’re quite taken with her, in fact. You’ll want to show those affections. In trust you even told me about it, or perhaps you let slip by accident. And what do I say to that? What do you suppose _MACUSA_ will think I’ll say to that?”

Understanding flickered. “That you disapprove.”

“Of course. I can’t have my Director of Security chasing skirts, especially not a skirt worn by one of our best and brightest. So promoting her will serve an underhanded purpose – I’m thinking maybe, just _maybe_ , if I put her in a different office, take her away from your daily interactions, you’ll get over it. Your lust will cool.

“Only it doesn’t. Your affection for her is clearly genuine. You’re annoyed by my actions and pursue her regardless. You take it seriously. It’s all very honourable. I sigh and fling my hands up in the air because you can’t fight love, and after all, you’re my friend, and your work isn’t suffering.

“Miss Goldstein earns the recognition and respect she deserves, and your pursuit of her will not only make sense, but be entirely aboveboard – and it will be you going after _her_ , not the other way around. It will also be wonderfully romantic when you count in the fact she almost blew herself up for you. I’m hoping the office gossip will involve more women daydreaming of saving their men from danger rather than our current themes of breakroom seduction.”

Percival rubbed at the bridge of his nose, making the mistake of using his hand holding the cigarette; the smoke stung at his eyes. “You can’t know that’s what people will think.”

“I will _make_ them think that,” Sera replied smartly. “If you control how the truth is revealed, you can control people’s perceptions of it. And it _is_ the truth, when all is said and done. I can’t say I think it’s a smart choice for you, but I’m just wiser about you than most people and I know that nothing I say will stop you. So I’m trying to make it work, for all of us.”

She sat there, hands folded in her lap like some sort of prim governess, a tiny smile on her lips. He experienced the not uncommon emotion of wanting to leap up and hug her, or punch her in the arm and yell.

“Well?” she prodded, after a very long thirty seconds.

Percival tapped ash into the tray at his elbow. “Thank you,” he said, finally.

“You’re welcome.”

“But,” he continued. “Tina might be angry with this – all of this.”

Seraphina gave him a look irritatingly close to pity. “Oh, Perce,” she said. “She already knows. I told her.”

 

Five o’clock came, and they made little headway with Horace, but everything else seemed to be moving forward. Someone had finally dragged the marsh and recovered the handbag holding the files and Tina’s wand. There was also news that Kate Masters had finally woken from her cursed sleep, but as she was barely functional and still recuperating, she could not be interviewed until tomorrow. With that, Percival told everyone to go home, kicking even the most hell-bent of the Aurors out of the office. He would rather they be well-rested than overworked.

It was half past and he was on his way out himself, when he was intercepted in the lobby by Queenie Goldstein.

“Excuse me, Mr Graves,” she hailed, voice raised just slightly to be heard over the noise and clatter of most of MACUSA heading home. “Could we talk for a second?” Her perfume reached him just as she was an arms-length away, a soft scent of amber and honey, sweet but not overbearing. He knew very well that Queenie Goldstein was intoxicating to many of the men and women at MACUSA, but in the past he’d had little time for her save for her relationship with Tina. Now that Tina had become more of a force in his life, well, her sister automatically deserved more of his time and consideration.

Also, he was quite certain the rules of courtship dictated you did your best to get along famously with the sister – so long as that sister was not a harpy. “Of course,” he said. She shifted her weight in her heels, and he knew right away that she did not want to be overheard. “Shall we walk?” he added. She nodded.

They set off down the steps, where not so long ago he had found her sheltering Modesty Barebone with her own body. She was not as tall as her sister, but she had a decent enough height, especially combined with her choice of heels. Clearly she didn’t take much stock in that strange idea women had to be shorter than men. “How is Tina?” he asked.

She treated him with a small smile. “Tina’s doing great,” she said. “Better than expected. Not healed all the way but they’ll let her out soon and the rest of her recovery can be done at home. Depending on how she is they might let me take her home tomorrow.”

The news sent a warm feeling of relief blooming in his chest. He didn’t like the idea of her in the hospital, even if Queenie was keeping her company (he didn’t dare attempt to stay overnight himself, lest he get between siblings, or draw the ire of the nurses). “Good,” he said. “I know she doesn’t like hospitals.”

“Happens when you lose your parents to somethin’ slow,” Queenie said, without a trace of self pity. “Too much time spent in hospitals isn’t good for kids. That’s why I came to see you.” Before he could ask, she elaborated. “I’ve been spending as much time as I can with Modesty Barebone, when Tina is asleep. She’s a sweet kid, but I’m worried.”

She was echoing his own thoughts on the matter, but he hoped she wasn’t about to ask something from him that he could not give. “It’s not the best place for her, but until we can sort something better out, with the proper security, that’s our only option.”

Queenie sighed as they brushed shoulders with a stream of others leaving the Woolworth Building. “I know,” she said. “And Modesty knows, too.”

“Well, I told her.”

“Yeah, she says you’ve been visiting her, too,” Queenie said. “But visits just aren’t enough, Mr Graves. A child needs to run and play, breathe fresh air. Even the bookish ones. I know it’s only been a day or so, but…”

“Are you suggesting she go back to the Home?”

“No.” Her cheeks had pinkened in the wintry air as they crossed the street and stepped smartly through the crowd on the sidewalk. “She doesn’t want to, not yet, unless she has to. I’m asking if you can pull some strings, get her some kind of special leave to go somewhere? I’ll go, too, and whatever security that’s needed. Will you please consider it?”

Her earnestness and worry for Modesty was enough that he would have agreed even if it wasn’t something he was concerned with, as well. “I’ll do what I can,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said, honestly. “I feel like everyone’s so prepared to ignore her – the strange little orphan. She needs someone to depend on.”

“You, perhaps?”

Queenie tucked her gloved hands into her coat pockets. “I think it’s you,” she said. “She told me you’d make sure she was well taken care of. Should I believe that, Mr Graves?”

Admittedly, Percival hadn’t really thought too much about it. For the past few days it had been a matter of getting from one hour to the next, doing his job and whatever else was required of him. He made sure Modesty was safe and looked after, and he cared for her well-being, but even if that hadn’t been part of his job he knew he would have done it anyway because it was the right thing to do. He wasn’t sure why Modesty would put so much belief in him; surely she had been knocked around by enough adults that she was careful with her trust. It wasn’t like she was one of his nieces or nephews, who had known him for their entire lives.

“I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to believe, Miss Goldstein,” he said. “But I do care for her and want her to be happy and safe.”

She tipped her head to the side, considering him, her gaze so piercing it was very nearly probing. Percival found himself looking away, glancing down the street, and from the corner of his eye he saw Queenie’s blush darken, looking almost guilty.

“Well, I’d be happy to help out any way I can, and Tina would too if she was up and about,” she said.

“Are you going to see your sister now?”

“Going home to wash up first, get a few things. Clean up, if she’s coming home tomorrow.”

“Would you mind terribly if I went in to see her while you were doing that?”

“I’m her sister, not her jailor,” Queenie joked. “Do whatever you like, Mr Graves. Just make sure she eats?”

“Oh,” Percival said. “Of course. That was part of the plan.”

She glanced aside at him, with a frown, and then something close to realization dawned on her face as she looked around and saw where they were headed. “Mr Graves, the nurses will kill you,” she said.

“Oh, they won’t,” he said, with a careless wave of his hand. “So long as I don’t get caught.”

 

.

 

Tina was feeling much better. She was largely undisturbed for the early afternoon, save for – and this surprised her – a handful of flower deliveries. There were now a little over half a dozen vases in her room, all of them bursting with colourful bouquets. The one from Percival, however, remained at its place on her bedside.

She spent the time reading when she wasn’t napping; Queenie had purchased for her two fluttery romance novels and the latest copy of the New York Ghost. She was starting to get sick of toast and tea, but the alternative was beef tea, which she had no interest in.

“I’m going to starve to death,” she told her doctor, somewhat mulishly, when she came by to check on her.

Doctor Mendes only laughed at her and said, “You Aurors are all the same.”

With her eyes trained on the page of the novel she held, she did not know she had been joined by another save for two things: first, a slight click of the door jamb, but secondly – and more noticeable – the rich, salty scent of grilled meat.

Tina snapped the book down and there was Percival, wearing a furtive expression on his face that made it obvious he had just snuck in, and in his hand…

“Did you Apparate from New York with that?” she exclaimed in disbelief, her stomach twinging with eagerness.

“Yes,” Percival said, testing the door to make sure the rudimentary lock was in place before heading over to her bedside, holding the hot dog out towards her. “It’s a miracle I didn’t get mustard anywhere. And that I wasn’t intercepted by any staff.”

She levered herself upright a bit more as he came to her bedside. The hot dog was still, well, hot, and when she took her first greedy bite there was a soft puff of steam. Percival looked amused. “What?” she asked, holding her hand over her mouth as she attempted to talk and eat at the same time.

“You look positively enraptured,” he said.

She swallowed. “How did you know?” she asked, motioning to the hot dog before taking another bite.

He shrugged. “I was here for some time too,” he said, casting his gaze around the room. “And we had the same doctor. She’s rather bent on a certain diet for her patients. All I could think about the entire time I was here was escaping and getting a cheesecake from Lindy’s.”

Laughter was impossible with her mouth full, so she just made an amused sound. She told herself to eat more slowly lest she upset her stomach, but that was proving incredibly difficult.

“I see you’ve received more flowers,” he remarked, inspecting the bouquets. “Who are they from?”

She shrugged. “Not sure,” she said. “I’ve just been letting them get put anywhere.”

“Huh, the sports league sent you the roses,” he said, turning aside the card. “Let’s see. Madame Trow from the ICW thanks you for your service. And this one’s from the Wand Department, apparently they miss you.”

“I miss you,” she replied. She shifted aside on the bed and patted the spot next to her, wordlessly inviting him to come up again as he had that morning.

He complied readily, pulling his long legs up onto the bed after toeing off his shoes, and wrapped an arm around her. She cuddled in close. He still wore his coat and it held the soft edge of wintry New York air that she hadn’t realized she’d missed so much.

He also smelt quite strongly of fresh tobacco smoke and she wrinkled her nose. “How much have you been smoking?” she asked.

Instead of answering, he pulled out his embroidered pocket square. “Here,” he said. “For the mustard.”

For a split second she felt cold, suddenly transported back in time to facing Grindelwald – wearing Percival’s face – carefully wiping the mustard from her upper lip. She remembered the flush of embarrassment that had gone from her chest all the way up to her face and she was convinced she’d have died from it were it not for the fact she needed to not look like even more of an idiot in front of Newt, a stranger back then.

But that kindness had been different because that had been a man portraying a facsimile of the one who was laying beside her. Percival was more real and vivid to her now than he had ever been and she would not let the shadow of a dark wizard get in the way of that.

“Thank you,” she said, plucking the handkerchief from his fingers. “Am I making a mess?”

“It’s more of a preventative measure. I’ve seen you eat before.”

“Ha.” She gently dug her elbow into his side and he made an offended noise, shifting slightly. “Thank you, though. I’m feeling better but she was threatening me with beef tea to _fortify_ me.”

“Well, just locate the bouquet in here you like the least and pour the tea in,” he suggested.

“Mr Graves,” she said, sternly, trying to stop a little smile flickering at the corner of her mouth and failing. “I’m shocked by your cavalier attitude towards medical advice.”

“Yes, I suppose sneaking a sick patient a questionable slab of meat is cavalier, as is allowing the patient to eat it,” he said. “Why don’t you give me the hot dog back and we can revert to respecting the health profession, as it rightly deserves?”

“You tell such funny jokes,” Tina replied, patting his knee before going back to demolishing the hot dog. “The rumour mill is wrong about you.”

 

She’d fallen asleep again, nestled close to him. It was difficult not to. But her dream was not restful; instead she found herself dreaming of an endless sky and grass that was dry and prickly beneath her feet. She was dancing the Charleston with Veronique, whose movements were wild and frightening. Then Veronique reached up to her face and removed it, as if one were taking off a party mask. Her skull grinned out at Tina; the jawline flapped as if to speak, but dislocated and fell from the fury of her dancing. It broke to pieces on the grass.

Tina woke with a start, pulling away from where she’d had her face tucked against Percival’s neck. “Sorry,” she said, automatically, scrubbing a hand over her eyes.

Percival jerked a bit as well and that’s when she realized he, too, had drifted off, and she had woken him. She scooted back a bit more to get a look at him; they had fallen asleep sitting up, propped against the pillows. “Are you alright?” she asked. Glancing at the clock, she figured they’d only been asleep for no more than ten minutes.

He rubbed his hand over the back of her head, fingers stroking through her hair, and her eyes closed almost instinctively at the sensation. “Fine,” he said. “Just tired.”

“Didn’t you sleep last night?”

“Sort of. I was here in a room until I woke up at around two in the morning. Then I ended up watching over Modesty for a bit.”

She opened her eyes to smile at him. “Queenie’s been making clothes for her,” she said. “I think she’s glad to finally have a clothes horse.”

“What about you?” he asked. “You look spooked.”

Tina smiled tightly. “A bad dream,” she said, settling back down at his side again.

“About what?”

She shrugged. “Veronique,” she said.

There was a pregnant pause, the one she had dreaded. She felt so guilty for it not having occurred to her to ask before – but cut off from everything as she had been, thinking of anything outside the confines of her hospital room hadn’t been a consideration. She had been happy to concern herself only with Queenie’s presence, taking her potions, and letting herself heal.

But the outside world was still there, and Percival was knee deep in it. He would know, and he would tell her if she asked.

“How is she?” she asked, finally, her voice soft.

He didn’t answer right away; in fact, the silence was an answer by itself. But she still needed to hear it. “I’m sorry, Tina,” he said, finally. “She was shot in the stomach with the Clanx gun. She bled out at the scene.”

Tina closed her eyes. No tears this time, not like her shocked weeping at what had happened with Kate. This was a dead, hollow feeling in her chest.

Percival trailed his fingers through her hair, soothing. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Is it unprofessional of me, to grow so attached?” she whispered.

She felt him shake his head. “No,” he said. “It’s only human.”

“I shouldn’t have let her come with me,” she sighed. “But I don’t think I’d have been able to get her to stay. Maybe I should have-”

“You were right, you know,” he interrupted, as if he hadn’t heard her speak; but from what he said she understood he was trying to comfort her. “Back when I suspected her, you said it didn’t feel right. From what the investigation is uncovering, you were correct. I’m sure you know better than anybody what you were and were not able to do.”

“I still feel guilty.”

“That’s natural,” he said, and kissed the top of her head. “I have some good news for you, though.”

“Like what?”

“Kate Masters woke up.”

Tina felt a flutter of hope. “She did?”

“Today. She’s not up for visitors, but the doctors say it’s looking good so far when it comes to her recovery. Geneva Rawley tried to get in twice to see her, but seeing as how Kate is under the watchful eye of MACUSA she was intercepted both times. She tried to see you too, come to think of it.”

Oh, Geneva. Tina knew that if Veronique had died there at the Mope mansion, Geneva would have been there for it. “And how is she holding up?”

“Admirably. Like a Rawley.”

She smiled a little. “Let’s talk about something else,” she urged. She didn’t want to dwell on the things she couldn’t change, not today.

He was quiet for a moment in thought. “I spoke with Queenie earlier.”

“Oh?” she asked, archly. Queenie was sweet and gentle and charming and lovely, but she wasn’t above being sneaky. Hopefully her sister had behaved herself; Tina had sternly told her not to dig through Percival’s head, but sometimes Queenie had a hard time refraining. “About us?”

“Not really,” he said, surprising her. “About Modesty. She’s concerned for her welfare.”

“A concern we all share,” Tina said. Though she hadn’t seen the girl or knew her well, she was attached, if only because of Credence – and Credence had worked so hard to protect Modesty.

Percival nodded, resting back against the headboard and closing his eyes. He looked so tired, underneath his swagger, that she urged to comfort him in some way; she reached out and trailed her fingertips over his cheekbone and was rewarded with a small smile on his lips.

“The President hasn’t made a decision on Modesty just yet,” he said, not opening his eyes. “I think she’s hiding something important, but she’ll tell me when she’s ready. In any case, the girl can’t stay here forever.”

“No she can’t,” Tina said, still watching him, enjoying the opportunity to admire the angles of his face. “What do you think should be done?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But she’s relying on me.”

“The President?”

“Modesty,” he corrected.

She tilted her head to the side, curious. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. But I made a promise to take care of her. She overheard it. Maybe that’s why.”

Tina blinked, looking at him. Carefully she leaned down, until their noses were almost touching. She blew on his lips and his eyes flickered open in surprise. “Explain?”

“Explain what?”

“You said you made a promise.”

Again, Percival shrugged. It was almost maddening, his refusal to commit to a statement; if it weren’t for the fact Tina thought it was sweet to see something different from his usual do-this-and-then-that mannerisms, she’d be annoyed. “When I got her from Lady Talon’s Home, I spoke briefly with James Talon before we parted ways,” he explained. “He asked if he could trust me and made me swear to take care of her. Then I took Modesty and ran. I can only assume she’s trusting James’ opinion.”

“Right,” she said, nodding, though really she wanted to roll her eyes. She tried a different tactic. “So what do you think should be done?”

“I’m not sure. Rehoming children is not my forte.”

She made a noise of agreement. “Fair enough. What about sending her back to the Home?”

“I’m not sure that’s best,” he said, frankly. “Terrible things have been following her around. That church, that apartment she was found in, now the Home. How is she to feel safe anywhere where that safety has been breached?”

“True,” Tina nodded. “Have you thought about speaking to the Children’s Services Department? They might know a good family to foster her.”

He frowned. “They’d have to be properly vetted. And fostering is so… impermanent. She needs stability.”

“Then we can find a family to adopt her,” Tina said, cheerfully. “Someone to love and take care of her. That’s what she deserves, isn’t it?”

Percival looked unconvinced. “I suppose,” he said.

“What’s the matter?”

“I simply don’t think we should be so quick to get rid of her so soon,” he said, just a tad testily. “Like she’s unwanted. It’s only been a couple of days.”

Tina couldn’t help it; she started to smile and it turned into a large grin at the somewhat sulky expression that had started to suffuse his face.

At that, Percival full-on scowled. “Why are you smiling at me like that?”

“You’re such a fool, Percival Graves,” she said.

“I just don’t want-”

She leaned in quickly to kiss him, stopping his sentence. It only took a moment for him to give in, tipping his head to the side to deepen it, laying a hand gently against the back of her neck.

“I know when the time is right you’ll be able to advise the President on a good course of action,” she murmured against his lips.

He sighed. “Perhaps.”

“No, I know you will.” A fool, yes, but not for long. Tina, a fool herself, could forgive him almost anything. “Speaking of the President, did she tell you the good news?”

He groaned. “I don’t want to talk about that,” he said, placing both hands at the sides of her head, cradling her face in his palms. “It’s exhausting being outsmarted.”

She laughed. “You’ll get her back in due time,” she said, even though she knew that Seraphina had done them all a great favour in her machinations. She knew the President was not the sort to give out promotions that were not well-earned, and while she found the solution somewhat underhanded, she had to agree – Percival’s place was as the Head of the Department. She didn’t know if he understood how important his position was – that he could not be replaced as easily as he might think.

She glanced at the wall clock. “The nurses are going to come by in about fifteen minutes,” she said. “That door ought to be unlocked and you should be long gone by then.”

“I can’t make any promises,” he said.

“That’s alright, I’ll make sure you don’t get caught,” she said, before kissing him again. As he circled his arms around her and gently pulled her onto his chest – ever careful of her still healing body – she felt love and wonder at the intimacy between them, so easily felt but so hard-won. Though they were no longer undercover, she felt it was now that their partnership had truly begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A super long author's note to go with the super long chapter! As with all things I write, feel free to skip this.
> 
> So, history lesson again! Except... not really since I only found half of my answers.  
> I have spent a weird amount of time trying to figure out if Tina's hot dog addiction was kosher or not. According to my EXPERT GOOGLING POWERS, Jewish delis did invent the kosher beef hot dog in the early 1900s, but the company didn't start selling them to supermarkets until around 1930. And, again, that was in delis, and I couldn't seem to find a link between them and hot dog cart vendors, which are the most likely culprit for where Tina got her fix as she was around that part of New York. Nathan Handwerker, a (Jewish??? Again could only find some mention of this, unconfirmed) immigrant, famously ran a hot dog stand in Coney Island that became the brand 'Nathan's Famous', but I cannot find any evidence he sold kosher. Pork-based hot dogs were still all over the place.  
> My personal opinion is her fooding is not kosher, but apparently it was not uncommon at all for Jewish immigrants to flout dietary restrictions as they immersed themselves in the hodgepodge of cultures that was New York in the 20s. So I guess it can swing either way, really? You might have noticed my own personal take on Tina (which you may or may not agree with and that is totally fine by me) is she is Jewish by birth but was not raised as such, though she holds her early memories quite close to her chest. While she knows some nursery rhymes and songs taught by her mother, she does not speak anything but American English, and she kind of eats whatever. Also note the fact that the events of Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them actually occurs during Hanukkah in 1926 and there's no evidence of it in the Goldstein apartment (though if you want to you can chalk that up to the people behind the movie not thinking about these things so whatever). For this story she and Queenie are definitely a result of the 'melting pot' cultural norm in New York, and America in general.  
> Super cool though, apparently kosher delis were popular among non-Jewish customers for the conception that their products could be trusted to have undergone strict sanitary measures and humane practices above the food safety laws of the time.
> 
> More fun stuff: I'm not sure how obvious I was being with this, but if you can figure out all the parts in this chapter where Percival is being kind of dumb, then yay! He'll figure it out. Like Tina accurately observes, he's never a fool for long.
> 
> For the record, wrapping up all the plot is going to drag on for several more chapters, and the result is going to be kind of a lopsided story structure which sort of drives me crazy. So guys, I hope you enjoy the Super Long Denouement. The alternative was ending the story in the chapter before this with a happily ever after, and then all of the stuff I'm writing now would be a great beginning for a sequel. BUT, I cannot commit to writing a sequel to this monster just now. I'm going to try my hand at NaNoWriMo this year, which means - yes yes - this story will hopefully be wrapped up before the end of October. Wish me luck!


	29. thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're skipping ahead two days in the timeline so we don't have to get bogged down by the boring stuff. It's Thursday January 6 1927, in case y'all were wondering.

“It’s been three days since we made our arrests,” Seraphina said. “And Horace still isn’t talking. What are our options?”

They were gathered in Major Crimes. The department was mostly open concept, but there were tables to sit and have meetings at, and small offices tucked away. One room was being used entirely by Vidal and Marcos to gather their information and process it and that was where they, Percival and Seraphina were meeting.

“Honestly, ma’am, it’s getting to the point where the investigation is more difficult without Goldstein,” Vidal said. “Even with her reports, we don’t have her eyes and ears, or her relationship with witnesses.”

This was not a surprise to any of them, but Seraphina still grimaced with displeasure. Marcos hurried to lay out a plan for the next few days while Percival sat back and let the facts of the week stew in his mind.

Tina was due back at the office on Monday. Her doctor had allowed her to be discharged from St Vincent’s, but she was still under strict orders of bedrest and was thus confined to the apartment she shared with Queenie in Manattan. He looked forward to seeing her back in the department – it was where she belonged.

In her absence, MACUSA was starting to talk quite freely about her. Half the things gossiped about weren’t true but readily believed; it was the real stuff people found particularly unpalatable. Most of MACUSA still found him intimidating enough not to bother him with questions, but there were a few cocky men who felt confident enough to waste Percival’s time.

Only one individual merited an actual response from him. He had been standing with Vidal in the lobby, smoking and waiting for Marcos to arrive so that they could head over to St Vincent’s and gather Kate Masters’ statement, when someone knocked into his shoulder.

Most people gave him a wide berth at MACUSA because it was well-known he was constantly working, and distracting him from it could cause a national incident (like annoying the President); body collisions only happened in crowds. At that moment, though, it was the dead hour between the morning and lunch rushes, with only a tenth of the usual amount of people milling about. This had clearly been a purposeful, ‘accidental’ meeting.

The man laughed, apologised, offered Percival another cigarette to replace his own dwindling one, which Percival declined. It took maybe thirty seconds of chatter for him to cut to the chase.

“None of us are at liberty to discuss any active cases,” Vidal had said, flatly, when the question of Tina surfaced. He looked more annoyed than normal at the enquiry. “Especially with non-members of the department.”

The man had laughed, as if he wasn’t irritating a high-level Auror and the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. “Hey, I’m just curious,” he said. “We used to be close, after all.”

“Yes, I know,” Vidal said, which was when Percival realized they were speaking to one of Tina’s former lovers – and Vidal didn’t have a very good opinion of him. Tina and Vidal had never been close, but he had a small protective streak towards most of the younger Aurors in the office, so his disgruntlement was telling.

“I just want to defend her, you know,” the man continued. “Everyone in my department knows about us, so they keep coming up to me and asking. Some of the stuff they’re saying – crazy.”

“Crazy how?” Percival asked.

“Well,” the man said, shaking his head in disbelief, “once, she saved your life.”

“False,” Percival said. “It was more than once.”

“Marcos is here, sir,” Vidal said, pointing.

Percival dropped the rest of his cigarette on the shoe of the man gaping at them both, and he and Vidal walked off without a word. After that, there was a definite surge in gossip.

Marcos saying something about Kate Masters brought him back to the present and the meeting at hand; she was suggesting they delay further interviews with her until Tina was back. “I think that’s best,” Percival nodded. “We’ve hit the point in this investigation where we need to maintain stamina and just keep pushing, not rushing headlong at every angle. Eventually, something will give.”

“Then that’s all we can do today, I think,” Seraphina said. “Thank you both. Keep doing what you’re doing and we’ll talk tomorrow. Percival, could you stay behind for a moment, please?”

After Marcos and Vidal had filed out, Seraphina let out a deep sigh. She wasn’t as stressed as she had been last month, when the obscurus had been tearing through New York, but she had a lot on her plate. The ICW and European governments were clamouring for information from her, which she would not give; and the journalists were dogging everyone in MACUSA day and night. Absolutely no one was allowed to talk to the press outside of Seraphina or Percival; anyone who did faced immediate dismissal. That didn’t stop the journalists from trying, though.

“I just want this week to be over,” she said.

He gave a nod in agreement. “I know,” he said. “But there’s too much to do.”

“Yes.” She rubbed at her temple. “Have you caught up with all the mistakes that occurred while you were away?”

“I have. I’m happy to say the paperwork load is more manageable. I’ll be able to move over to my duties as a Director a bit more, though, once this is all behind us.”

“It’s just such a shame,” she murmured. “Unless they can give us anything worthwhile, it’s the Death Cell for all three of them.”

He bowed his head; the very thought made him feel cold. But there had been too many crimes committed by all three of those Aurors; execution was likely the only destination for them unless one of them traded information. “We all make our choices,” he said, quietly.

Seraphina shook her head, as if trying to cast off the negative thoughts no doubt settling in her mind. “Well,” she said, lightly. “Nothing to be done for the time being until Vidal and Marcos get through. But – oh, yes. I wanted to talk to you about Modesty Barebone.”

“Oh?” he asked.

He had been thinking of Modesty a lot, lately. Seraphina had handed him her file the day before, and her future was more of a concern than ever. A seer was not to be taken lightly, but the additional health concerns were another matter entirely. Seers were more prone to madness, after all, and Modesty needed a stable home life if she was going to have to face the instability of telling the future.

He had been visiting her every morning before work, every afternoon after work before going to see Tina, and sometimes in the middle of the day during the lunch hour. Queenie joined him when she could, or went without him if he was busy. Mostly they just kept her company, taking walks with her or sharing a meal; shy around most adults, Modesty was happy to chatter away to him or Queenie about whatever thought crossed her mind. She always asked after Tina.

He wondered about bringing up her Sight to her; would she even be surprised? Did she know the ins and outs of her abilities, or was it still a mystery to her?

“I’ve been attempting to sort out a longer-term solution for her.”

“I assume you’ve spoken with Lawrence Talon?” he asked.

She sighed. “I have, yes,” she admitted. “Without James, he’s not sure if anyone at the home is qualified enough to handle her gift. We are considering calling in some experts to take a look and work with her, but we want to speak with her first. I don’t want to keep things hidden from her.”

He inclined his head. “I agree with that. She has enough trust issues to deal with, I’m sure.”

Seraphina let out a hollow laugh. “Absolutely. In any case, that is something we can do over time. I want her happy and safe first. She’s happy and safe _now_ , of course, but she’s still living in the hospital.”

“So what do you need from me?” he asked.

“Well,” she said. “I found a place for her, for now. It’s in California, it’s a care facility for working mothers who drop their kids off there during the day. It will be accessible to us and far from any drama she’s encountered here. I’ve spoken with the owners and they’re happy to take her and keep her overnight, as well as undergo any security changes required, until we find a more permanent solution.”

Percival frowned. “Are we sure continued security for her is needed?” he asked. “We’ve stamped out the threat and she hasn’t appeared in any of the papers. Unless Grindelwald himself decides to come back to America, she’s safe.”

“Yes,” she said, sighing. “I know. But I’d be more comfortable sending her so far away if I knew the place was up to standard. Yours, actually.”

“Mine?”

“Yes, I’d like you to go see the facility yourself,” she said. “I know it’s a little below your pay grade, but I felt it best to send someone with Modesty’s trust and her well-being in mind and, well, one Miss Goldstein is still recuperating and the other isn’t exactly qualified. Once you give the approval, perhaps you could bring her there yourself to get settled in.”

Percival crossed his arms over his chest, thinking it over. The idea made him feel a little… petulant. “I suppose I could,” he said, guardedly.

“Thank you,” she said.

“But-”

“Here we go.”

“I’m not sure it’s the right course of action.”

“Percival,” Seraphina sighed. “I know it’s not the best. Honestly, I toyed with the idea of sending her to Gloria, but she has enough on her plate as is with the other eight kids.”

“Agreed,” he said.

“My hands are tied and there’s not much I can do,” Seraphina said. “Children’s Services are starting to give me a hard time for keeping her at St. Vincent’s, they want her rehomed as soon as possible. But I can’t go around canvassing for families, and a girl with her gifts? It will take some time to find someone willing to take that responsibility.”

“Surely there’s a better option than a facility like that, though,” Percival argued.

He knew he was upsetting her, but this all needed to be figured out. To her credit, Seraphina didn’t seem irritated; rather at times like this, they mutually valued each other for their disagreements. It made options easier to find. “Then advise me,” she said, frankly. “Please. If you have a better idea, I assure you I’m all ears.”

They both lapsed into silence, considering the puzzle before them. The thought of Modesty having to go back to another institution was upsetting. Not that Lady Talon’s was anything but the best for her – she’d been safe and protected and cared for, there, and there was no guarantee she would get the same treatment in any other place. But the home would no longer feel safe for her, and that was the important thing. Unfortunately, he could not think of any place that would give her that security, both real and perceived.

Except one. And then, suddenly, it was all so clear to him he wanted to laugh; instead he spoke. “I’ll take her,” he said.

Seraphina blinked at him. “I’m confused,” she said. “First you say you won’t bring her to California, now you will?”

“I’m not bringing her anywhere,” he confirmed. “But I’ll take her home. With me.”

“Did I just fall down a rabbit hole?” she blurted out. “What are you trying to say, Perce?”

“I’m not _trying_ to say anything,” he said. “I feel I’m being quite clear. Modesty will come home with me. I have more than enough income to support her, my house is one of the safest places in the country, and she trusts me.”

“Support her,” Seraphina repeated. And then, once more for good measure. “ _Support_ her.”

He shrugged. “I see no reason why she should be the financial responsibility of Lady Talon’s – or anyone else – if I am fostering her.”

Sera laced her fingers together and placed her elbows against the desk. For a long moment neither of them spoke, but she was looking him straight in the eye. He had a feeling she was checking for signs of madness.

“You’ll need to hire a nanny,” she said suddenly. “Full time, at least until Modesty starts going to school. That nanny will have to be properly vetted.”

“Of course,” he agreed.

“And you are prepared to pay for her schooling, upkeep, health, and possibly any other costs associated with her abilities with the Sight?”

“Absolutely.”

“And we both know she has also become a person of interest to Grindelwald.”

“So have I.”

 “Percival,” she said, voice suddenly very soft. “This is not a decision to take lightly. Are you sure about this?”

He supposed, on the outside, it seemed very sudden to Sera, and he couldn’t blame her for her concern. “I’ve been thinking about it for some time,” he said, honestly; even though he hadn’t realized it, it had been going through his mind. “I’m sure. Especially if James was correct in deducing her abilities as a seer, she will need stability and someone to guide her – or who can afford to guide her, and won’t take advantage of it.”

“Well,” Sera remarked, almost to herself. “One of MACUSA’S leading bachelors gets a foster child. You may be even more desirable to a certain kind of woman than ever before.”

“You’re not arguing against this as much as I’d expect you to.”

She shrugged. “Well we know you’re good with kids – most of the time,” she said. “And frankly, Percival, your home _would_ be the best place for her, and as an option it is the best we have and the best we’re likely ever to have. But I must counsel you that this is a lot of new, serious relationships to take on over so short a time. What will Goldstein think of you suddenly having a child to be responsible for?”

And he remembered Tina, her secretive smiles at his unwillingness to discuss adopting Modesty out to a strange family, and her confidence that he would know what to do when the time came. “Oh, Sera,” he said, with a laugh, amused he could condescend her in the same way she had done to him regarding Tina’s promotion two days earlier. “She already knows.”

Seraphina let out a surprised laugh as well, and he had to admit it was a welcome change. People always said Percival worked too hard, but he personally felt that Seraphina outstripped him easily in that regard. She made it all look so easy, but he knew the truth. “Can I say something?” she asked, still smiling.

“You know you can.”

“Do you remember not even two weeks ago, sitting in my office and having breakfast with me?” He nodded. “Before all of this began. And you had the same look on your face I see on every new MACUSA employee whenever I’m in the room. Counting lives.”

“I still think you were exaggerating,” Percival said, propping his chin in his hand. “But if you say so.”

“I just,” she paused. “I felt so guilty. I failed you as a friend.”

“We’ve been over this-”

She waved her hand to cut him off. “That’s not what I was going to say,” she said. “I’m saying I looked at you and I could still see what had happened. Like Grindelwald was still clinging to the edges of you. I had my Director back, but my friend was still missing. He was in there somewhere, I knew that, but I couldn’t find him.”

Percival rubbed his hand over his mouth. “It wasn’t that bad,” he said, quietly.

“No, I know,” she sighed. “You’re always fine, at the end of the day – but it frightened me. You were still putting yourself back together, and so was Goldstein – and myself, too, if I’m honest. I was hoping that by having you both on assignment it would do more than find the bad guys, but redeem us for our mistakes.”

“And you were right,” Percival said, leaning forward slightly. “Look at what we’ve done. It was messy, but it would have been messy either way. We eradicated an entire cell of hateful revolutionaries.”

“Most importantly, you and Goldstein saved a young girl from being abducted and used as a pawn in a dark wizard’s scheme,” she said. “Even if you had failed in all other respects, that is still better than we managed last month.”

“That was a decision you had to make,” he said, sternly. “I understand the boy was a victim, but he could have killed so many and there was no way of knowing…”

“I still feel it, though,” Seraphina said, gently placing two fingertips to her chest, above where her heart beat. “But that’s neither here nor there. I’m saying you did just as I expected, but Tina Goldstein exceeded my wildest dreams.”

“She did good work,” he said.

Sera shook her head. “It’s not that,” she said. “She brought my friend back to me. She banished what was left of Grindelwald clutching at you; scrubbed away that protective shell I saw you wearing when you got out of hospital. I’ll be indebted to her forever for that. And that’s what I wanted to say, and I would like to tell her that, too, if you allow it.”

They fell silent for a moment. Percival reached for his cigarette case. He offered her one, but she shook her head. She was carefully considering the wall, gathering her thoughts, no doubt.

“That’s what you wanted to say?” he asked.

She nodded, still not looking at him.

“That was especially long-winded, even for you,” he said.

Then she was laughing again. Smiling smugly, he lit his cigarette. “Alright,” she said. “Get out. Go make sure Modesty is fine with the new arrangements, and then I suggest you head over to Children’s Services and start the paperwork process, because who knows how long _that_ is going to take.”

 

.

 

Her wounds had healed over but a sense of lethargy remained, strong enough that the President herself had told Tina not to bother coming back to MACUSA until after the weekend. Tina acted like it was an annoyance, but secretly she was relieved not to have to go back just yet. She had left in some disgrace, after all, and she wanted to be strong in body as well as spirit when she strolled back through those doors.

Now that Tina was back home, Queenie had no more excuses: she was back at the Wand Permit Office, dutifully making coffees and remaining close-lipped about her sister. That meant that for the past few days Tina was treated to two things she hadn’t enjoyed in awhile: quiet, and solitude.

It was strange to think that there she was, on a quiet, cold, Thursday afternoon, curled up on the sofa when over a week ago she had been drinking and dancing with the criminal underworld of New Orleans. That it hadn’t even been a week since Percival had kissed her for the first time, on her way out from the New Year’s party before everything had gone insane.

It felt so much longer than that. She supposed her relationship with Percival could not be counted by something so simple as days. They’d been through too much.

Though Percival visited, she was so tired they didn’t do much besides lay together and quietly talk for an hour or two before he left. It wasn’t like they had the privacy to do much more than that, since Queenie was always around, and she was usually very insistent on making them tea and trying to get Percival to stay for dinner.

That first time Percival swung by their apartment it had only taken a few minutes for Queenie to spill the beans: as far as Queenie was concerned, if you were in their home, you deserved to know she was a Legilimens. She saw it more a misstep in manners to hide it than anything else.

Honestly, Percival knowing lifted a large weight from Tina’s shoulders – she hated keeping secrets from him. To his credit he hadn’t seemed upset, though he had been surprised and expressed the usual concern of Queenie possibly prying where she shouldn’t. “Don’t you worry,” she’d answered, patting his hand. “Your mind is like a locked cabinet. Trained, haven’t you? It’s Tina you need to be concerned about. If you tell her a secret, I’ll know soon enough.”

“Thank you for that,” Tina had huffed.

As strange as everything was, now, as Tina burrowed further in her blanket and stared at New York out her window, she felt oddly content. The world was uncertain, as dangerous as ever, but she was an Auror again with the power to change lives for the better. She would not lose it, not again.

There was a clatter outside the apartment door. Tina paused, a cup of cocoa raised midair to her mouth, listening closely.

Over the past two days, many people had tried to visit her. Most never made it past casually asking someone, like Queenie or the payroll office, what their address was before being rejected. Those who did know she usually refused entry to or just ignored their knock until they left.

Like Jeremy, who arrived with flowers. Tina had thought about cursing him but instead called for Mrs Esposito to get rid of this strange man trying to bother her, and he left very quickly after that. Embarrassment was always a better weapon against men than a wand.

She did let her fellow Aurors in, though, when they all arrived in one large group to see her the day she was discharged. They congratulated her and asked her a myriad of questions, only some of which she was prepared to answer, but they all seemed honestly happy with her return to the department as well as her recovery.

Whoever was there now produced a soft, careful knock, so it must be a man, and one who knew her living situation – no men allowed. If it was Jeremy back again she was going to be very displeased. She slowly got to her feet, the blanket wrapped securely around her like a cloak, and shuffled to the door, prepared to send whoever it was away until she was feeling a bit better.

“Who is it?” she called.

She was expecting anyone, really, even someone from New Orleans. Anyone except the man who answered.

“It’s Newt.”

She couldn’t open the door fast enough. “Newt!” she exclaimed, though she kept her voice hushed, ever aware of her nosy landlady.

He squeezed past her, setting his suitcase down on the floor next to the sofa. There were shiny, very new-looking locks on it. “I came as soon as I got the owl.”

“Queenie told you, didn’t she,” Tina tried to grumble, but she was smiling too hard and she just ended up sounding pleased. Which, well, she was. Instead of letting him answer, though, she hugged him.

He stiffened in surprise but, after a moment, hugged back. “I’m sorry,” she apologised, letting go, ever aware that Newt was more comfortable with beasts than people. “I just didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”

He gave her one of his small smiles, the type that made his very square face a little bit crooked. It was a charming effect. “It’s fine,” he said. “I was just surprised. I’m glad to see you’re doing alright, Tina. Pickett is, too,” he added, reaching under the lapels of his coat and drawing out the shy little creature.

She beamed at him and the bowtruckle. She remembered the first time he had been in the apartment, tall and awkward and hovering near the door, ill at ease and not at home. He was so different, now. They all were.

And now he was back and she felt that even though she had changed again without him – grown in a new direction – what was between them was still the same. They never would have been friends if the extraordinary hadn’t happened to them, and that made it more special, she felt. “Sit down,” she invited. “I’ll get you some hot cocoa. How’s the book?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. DADDY GRAVES DADDY GRAVES DADDY GRAVES  
> 2\. a wild newt appears! for reasons. sssh.  
> 3\. suck it, jeremy from broom transport!


	30. whatever the case may be

It was only by chance that Newt was in the apartment when there was a knock on the door, seeing as how he had been in his suitcase for the majority of the day. He had only come up to make a pot of tea, puttering around in the Goldstein kitchen and trying not to dislodge anything of import. Queenie had a pretty complicated setup for such a small area (not that it was much bigger than the shack he had down in his suitcase).

Having been made aware that Tina was receiving an unusual amount of callers, and she did not want to see most of them, he was prepared to ignore whoever it was. Additionally, he didn’t want his presence in New York to be fully known, for his own reasons and the fact that when he had been there the month before he had been unceremoniously kicked out by the President herself.

At the second knock, though, he understood whoever it was, was not going to go away. He would have to send them away himself. He headed over to the door, pulling out his wand and tapping it against the wood, turning a section of it into a one-way mirror. If it was the landlady, after all, he couldn’t very well talk to her in his very male-sounding voice.

It was Percival Graves. Despite the fact the spell was a one-way charm, the Director still tipped his head to the side, staring straight through the door, into, Newt felt, his very soul. “Whoever is looking at me, you’re going to want to let me in before I let myself in,” he said. There was an edge to his voice. Newt quickly waved away the charm and opened the door.

In that moment, Percival Graves’ face transformed from suspicious into genuinely surprised. “Ah,” he said, easily, holding out his hand. “We haven’t been formally introduced. Percival Graves.”

Though he wasn’t particularly fond of social niceties, Newt didn’t balk at them. “Yes, I know,” he said, shaking the other’s hand. “Newt Scamander.”

There was something of a smile on the other man’s face. “Yes,” he said. “I know. May I come in?”

Newt quickly got out of the way, and watched as Graves stepped inside, apparently very much at ease, and shut the door behind him. He was dressed smartly in muted pinstripes, his hair impeccable. He looked similar to last time, though at the same time, he did not. For many reasons.

He didn’t seem displeased to find Newt there, which was good. Newt was used to the aggressive mentality of suitors when they faced a potential threat. So, did Graves just not view him as such out of some masculine arrogance, or was he too comfortable in his affection of Tina that he didn’t even mind finding another man in her apartment? Newt hoped it was the latter. “Tina’s…” he paused. How to explain? “Here. You’re here for Tina?”

Graves gave a faint smile. “Yes.”

For a moment, Newt was torn. Bringing Jacob into his suitcase had been different, much different than allowing the Director of Security to step foot there. But Tina was in love with him, she had said as much, and she practically glowed when she talked about him.

The decision was made, finally, by Newt’s own instincts. It was not very different from Jacob at all, he realised. “I was just making us tea,” he said, hoping he hadn’t paused for too long of a time, with the other man watching him expectantly. “Do you think you could hand the pot down to me without breaking it? I’ve already broken it once.”

Graves, wisely, did not ask for clarification. “Of course,” he said.

The suitcase was sitting open on the kitchen floor. Newt waited at the bottom of the steps for a few moments before Graves’ expensive shoes appeared, and then the man himself, holding onto the step ladder and handing the pot of tea down with his free hand. “Ta,” Newt said. Graves was looking around with great interest.

“I suppose this saves you a bit of gold when you travel,” was all he said. “No hotels.”

“Some,” Newt admitted. “Come. She’s out here.” He could practically hear the questions Graves was thinking, but since the man did not voice them, Newt did not feel compelled to answer.

This was Percival Graves, not Grindelwald. Despite Newt’s nerves, a few moments standing with the man in Tina and Queenie’s apartment was all he needed to remember that. A picture of the two of them, side by side – Graves, and Grindewald wearing his face – would have been indistinguishable. But Newt had picked up on something else, back in December. There had been a wildness, a savagery he had sensed. He had doubted it at first – the fake Percival Graves, after all, treated Tina kindly, spoke softly, was professional, lacked in so many respects the superior demeanor Newt was often addressed with by other men. Newt had decided it was all in his head.

But then, slowly, he had realized it wasn’t. He had been around animals too long and, really, wizards were just another kind of beast, albeit with mannerisms and habits that could sometimes be impossible to read. Percival Graves had been dangerous in a very _present_ way, like he might attack any second. Newt had been around enough dangerous creatures to recognize it. It was what had prompted him, at the last second, to ask Gnarlak about Graves’ background, only to be cautioned away.

It hadn’t been Graves, though. It had been a different beast altogether. Had Gnarlak known?

He was mulling this over before being startled out of his thoughts by the real Percival Graves, standing in front of his work shack, and looking about him at the first section of environment Newt had created to house his creatures. “Incredible,” he said, rotating on the spot. “ _This_ didn’t make it into the file.”

The file? Ah, Merlin, of course there was a file on him. “It didn’t?” he asked, privately wondering how big the file might be. A hefty amount of parchment, surely.

“It stated your suitcase had enough extension within it to carry several magical creatures, but the details were vague; mostly it concerns your actions within New York.” Graves was still staring upwards, at the imaginary sky. “Also that it had terrible fastenings.”

“Ah, I got those locks replaced,” Newt said, trying not to flush.

The other man finally looked at him, as if remembering why he was there. “Tina?” he asked.

“She’s over here. She might be asleep.”

Indeed, as he led Graves over a small hillock, there was Tina curled up on a blanket in the grass with Newt’s elderly crup, who in her old age favoured sleeping in sunlight more than doing anything else. Tina’s hand, which had been stroking the dog-like creature’s back, had stilled in her slumber.

Newt cast a side-eye glance at Graves, who stood there quietly for a moment, considering her. Newt wondered if he should leave now, give them privacy. Apparently deciding he didn’t want to wake her, Graves began to back off the way they had come; at that moment, though, the crup stirred and Tina sleepily lifted her head from the grass.

She blinked in the glare of fake sunlight and yawned into the back of her hand. “Sorry, did I fall asleep?” she murmured, before apparently waking up enough to notice it wasn’t just Newt standing there.

Her smile was enough to warm Newt from his chest all the way down to his toes. “I’ve brought you a visitor,” he said, rather unnecessarily, as he watched Graves step down to her, taking her hand and helping her to her feet. The crup, Ally, gave a rather dissatisfied grumble.

“You did,” Tina said, before pressing herself into Graves’ embrace. “Hmmmm. Is it already five?”

“Noon,” Graves said. “Your sister kidnapped Modesty and took her to the zoo, so you’re my next-best thing to distract myself with on a lunch hour.”

Tina had filled in Newt on everything she had done since he had left – well, mostly. Though she didn’t state it specifically, he knew she was concealing quite a lot from him, which he didn’t begrudge her. Being an Auror was her job and that meant keeping secrets. He knew enough to be aware of Modesty’s presence at St. Vincent’s and why, though, which was more than the newspapers knew.

The place hadn’t been built for visitors, but there were plenty of places to sit, especially on the steps and surrounding areas where Newt had erected stables and various other places where he could tend to his creatures within easy reach of the tools he needed. After pouring them tea into several mismatched cups he had laying around, Newt seated himself on a step. He was surprised when Tina came and sat beside him instead of deciding to be as close as possible to Graves – a type of behaviour he noticed to be more common with couples. Instead, after hanging up his overcoat, Graves settled on a slightly lower step, propping his elbow on Tina’s knee.

The sounds of Newt’s many beasts came to them in a blend of squawks, buzzes and other calls, but the area they were in was bereft of any animal company. “This is quite the setup,” Graves remarked. “How long did it take you to build? Did you have any help?”

“I did ask a few colleagues on the finer points of stitching spaces together,” Newt said. “But they never saw the finished result. The Ministry is happy to have me working on my book, but they don’t really like my methods. They prefer ignorance.”

“Well, it’s very impressive.”

“Thank you, Mr Graves.”

“Please, call me Percival,” he said. “I’m only Mr Graves to coworkers and people I don’t especially like, or that don’t like me.”

“What if I don’t like you?” Newt asked. Not to be mean-spirited; just a logical question following the statement. He realized how it sounded to other people, though, once he said it, and braced himself.

Percival Graves threw his head back and laughed. So did Tina. “I told you that you’d like him,” she said, grinning. Surprised, Newt realized she was talking to Percival.

“I can see why you rubbed Seraphina the wrong way,” Percival said, looking entertained.

Newt’s crup finally decided to abandon the meadow and find them. She padded in quietly and laid down at the base of the steps. “That’s Ally,” Tina said, running her fingertips over the back of Percival’s neck. “She’s been keeping me company while Newt has been feeding all of his creatures.”

“I noticed she still has her forked tail,” he remarked. “Aren’t you supposed to have it removed?”

“I wouldn’t allow it,” Newt admitted. “They aren’t supposed to be seen by muggles anyway. They’re too aggressive towards them. I didn’t see a point.”

“Yes, I always found that to be a rather unusual law,” Percival said. “When did you arrive in New York, Mr Scamander?”

“Call me Newt,” he said. “And just this morning. Queenie told me what had happened to Tina, so I came straightaway.”

“Good of you,” Percival said. Again Newt was struck by the difference in the person he saw now compared to the one he thought he had met. A quietness, a competence. Graves watched Ally make another grumbling noise and roll about on her back before laying in the dust with her legs up in the air, apparently falling asleep just like that. “You’re staring at me an awful lot, Newt,” he remarked, voice dry.

There was no denying it. “Yes,” he said. “I have an interest in you.” That sounded awkward, but there was no taking it back.

Tina was smiling. She still had her hand on the back of Percival’s neck as she drank her tea. Was she leaving him to have a conversation with Graves on his own? She gave him a teasing look to let him know that she was.

“I understand,” Percival said, easily, surprising Newt. “Tina’s your friend. And I am here, courting her, as well as…” he waved his hand, encompassing all of their surroundings. “In your space. As a member of a government body that did not leave the best of impressions. But don’t worry. I have no intention in telling the President you are back again.”

“She’s not very fond of me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Percival said. “She doesn’t know you well enough to have a personal opinion of you. She’s good about that, Seraphina. However, she’s not fond of the trouble you apparently cause wherever you go.”

“I did help reveal Grindelwald,” Newt said, realizing too late that that was perhaps not the most sensitive of topics.

Graves didn’t flinch, but for a moment his expression did not waver, which gave off the same impression. “Yes,” he said. “And we’re all grateful.”

“We are,” Tina finally interjected. She gave Newt a comforting smile, perhaps to let him know he had not mis-stepped as badly as he thought. “And saved New York. And all of that. I’m sure the President will forgive you eventually.”

Percival made a sound that suggested Tina was wrong.

 

Newt decided to give them some space. They hadn’t asked for it, but he had done it all the same, heading off to the far reaches of the nocturnal habitat to visit the moon calves. Percival Graves had just revealed his intention to foster Modesty Barebone, and now he and Tina were in deep discussion about it.

Newt did not need to tend to anything, but he often found himself in quiet times just enjoying the simple presence of the other creatures. Pickett had finally stopped trying to accompany him everywhere, which was good; he needed to be around his own kind more often. As friendly as bowtruckles could be with humans and others, Newt always shied away from domestication when it came to wild beasts. It created a lot of problems. Still, Newt missed the constant companionship.

“Newt!”

He wandered back, to find Tina standing alone. Her cheeks were looking flushed, but she seemed pleased. Percival Graves was nowhere in sight. “Back to work,” she said. “It’s his way. He needs to get the papers in order.”

Modesty reminded Newt of why he had come to New York in the first place. He didn’t want to offend Tina by asking if the fostering was a good idea, but at the same time his worries needed to be quelled. “Will there be any problems?” he finally asked. There, that was a vague enough way of asking about it.

Tina looked at him like she knew exactly what he was thinking. “He’s a good man,” she said. “I know you know that.”

“Yes, I do. I mean, I’ve noticed.”

“It’s more what Queenie has told me,” she continued. “Modesty is very fond of him; he makes her feel safe. And I’ve seen him with kids, Newt. He’s got a load of nieces and nephews. And there’s no one to match him for magical prowess; he’ll protect her better than anyone else in the city.”

“Grindelwald tricked him once,” Newt said. “He might be able to do it again.” She looked away, suddenly, and worry bloomed. “I’m sorry, Tina,” he blurted out. “I’m just concerned.”

She was silent for a moment, looking out, away in the distance of the suitcase. “I know,” she said, finally. “But if Grindelwald tries again, he’ll fail. Percival is one of the most competent people I’ve ever met. You don’t have to talk to me about dark wizards, Newt. I know quite a bit about them by now.”

He nodded.

“Let’s have lunch,” she said, decisively, looking at him finally. She was smiling again, so he did his best to believe her, to believe in the strength of MACUSA and the people Tina knew and loved. At the end of the day, he trusted Tina’s views of the matter. Modesty Barebone would be fine. Newt could cast his attention elsewhere.

 

.

 

There were lots of things Percival would gladly do on a Friday afternoon. Shopping in a department store was not one of them but, alas, that was what he found himself doing.

When Percival had told Tina about Modesty yesterday, she had laughed delightedly and, to his surprise, grabbed him and peppered his face with kisses (Newt had hastily made his exit, then, muttering something about bats, or maybe cats?). “You are going to be fantastic,” she said, before kissing Percival very longingly on the mouth, and he remembered what Sera said about single men with children being desirable to a certain type of woman.

He thought she’d been kidding, but many of the women in the store were following him a little too closely with their eyes, even though he was accompanied by Queenie Goldstein. It hadn’t been at his request – she’d more or less volunteered. Or at least, Tina had suggested her when he had mentioned needing a feminine touch in helping set up his home for Modesty, and Queenie had barrelled excitedly into the bedroom where they had been innocently talking, not even ashamed she’d been eavesdropping.

Queenie was clearly not the girl’s mother, and also not Percival’s mistress – mistresses didn’t go clothes shopping for other women’s children – so she was easily overlooked as unimportant by many of the women in the store. Percival was considering wearing a wedding band next time just to get some peace of mind, because he felt a little too much like an expensive cut of steak.

“Why don’t you come as well?” he’d asked Tina. She had just laughed at him.

“You’re sweet,” she’d said. “But no. That would be too many people fussing about. Besides, I promised Newt I would spend a bit more time with him before he moves on.”

“But I still have to go?”

“Someone has to pay the bill Queenie’s gonna rack up,” she’d grinned. She was smiling and laughing much more now, and he liked it.

Now he was mostly just sitting idly by while Queenie and Modesty made the rounds in each department, reading the No-Maj newspaper; something called a ‘radiophone’ had everyone excited. While Queenie had made a variety of dresses for Modesty out of leftover fabric and notions from her own clothes, there were still a lot of other things to locate. He had to admit it was better with Queenie around, because she knew exactly what she wanted and would not be swayed by any saleswoman, no matter how persuasive the sales pitch.

It was a No-Maj store, which meant they didn’t have to deal with the prying eyes of MACUSA, but they were there out of necessity as opposed to privacy. The wizarding world had yet to transition entirely away from mail order catalogues, as well as embrace the convenience of shopping in one place. It was different in Europe, where Rappaport was not an issue; but here it was common for wizards and witches to dress exactly like No-Majs, while robes were delegated to the few entirely magical communities in the countryside or special occasions. Save for items of a magical nature, most witches and wizards could get everything they needed in the No-Maj world.

Like a bed, and a desk, and bedclothes, and a winter wardrobe, and a thousand other things Percival was perfectly happy with Queenie tabulating for the time being. It wasn’t that he didn’t know; but if she wanted to do it for him, well, so much the better. Besides, he had to concern himself with other things, like hiring some help. Fortunately, he thought he had found a good solution.

He’d told Modesty on Thursday their plans for her: that on Friday she would come home with him and he would take care of her from now on, and then asked if that was alright with her. She had immediately laughed and launched herself at him. He had gotten used to the idea of Modesty being somewhat otherworldly – he and Seraphina talked so much about her burgeoning gift, he almost expected her to turn her large eyes onto him and say “I know” in a spooky voice when he told her. Instead she’d let out a happy laugh and hugged him for at least a minute.

She was a child more than she was a seer, after all. He was happy for her to be that way.

One of the last things that needed to be bought, but which was incredibly important, was a proper black dress for her to wear to James Talon’s funeral. She had specifically asked to go, and Percival had said she could, which had jumpstarted something of a miniature argument between himself and Queenie. But at the end of the day, it was Percival’s decision, and he had put his foot down, stating that Queenie had not been there for Talon’s last moments and had not seen the effect he’d had on Modesty. Queenie had huffed and relented, but got her revenge by ringing up a dizzying bill.

He shook out his newspaper a little and turned the page. Someone came and sat beside him. It was Damiana Rawley.

A woman of colour in this sort of store was nearly unheard of, especially in the company of a white man. She did not seem to care. She propped her chin in her hand, considering him, neither smiling nor frowning. She’d had a hard week, just like him.

“You wanted to speak with me, Mr Graves?” she asked.

He closed and folded the newspaper. “I did,” he said. “As you know, I will be fostering Miss Barebone for the foreseeable future.”

“I do know.”

“I require help, of the caretaking kind.”

Damiana tipped her head to the side. “I’m in the catalogue and spell work business,” she said, dryly. “I’m not a temp agency.”

“I’m not asking you for help,” he said. “I said I wanted to speak with you about it, as I require you to ferry a message along for me. It’s only the proper thing to do.”

She laughed. “Is that so? What’s improper about the message?”

“Nothing, but a man of my age has no business speaking to a young woman about a job offer without her mother’s consent.”

In a flash, her smile disappeared. “You want to hire Geneva?” she asked. “To help you with Modesty?”

“I do.”

She folded her arms across her chest. He simply maintained eye contact with her. What the workers and other customers of the department store might be thinking of their conversation and standoff, he did not know or care. He just waited for Damiana to relent, as he knew she would.

Not without putting up a fight, however. “Why should I allow such a thing?” she asked.

“Because your daughter deserves to be her own person,” he replied, frankly.

“And how would working for you solve that?”

“It would give her a good income.”

“I already give her an income.”

“An income with independence attached.”

“Well,” Damiana rolled her eyes. “She can get that on her own, without your help.”

He did not waste time trying to be polite about it. “Geneva is overshadowed by you,” he said. “We both know you’re a crook as well as a saint, Damiana, but there are others who don’t understand that kind of differentiation. There’s a risk people will only ever look at her as an extension of you, unless you let her go somewhere and start fresh. She needs that right now, and it will help her in the long run.”

Damiana frowned, narrowing her eyes slightly, as if she was trying to see through him. “Are you trying out for charity work, Percy?” she asked, dryly.

It was his turn to roll his eyes. “By the Devil, you are impossible,” he said. “Geneva’s the right age, she has yet to choose a career path from what my sources tell me, and she’ll be able to relate to Modesty. But more than that I don’t want to let just anyone into my home. Geneva might have a criminal for a mother, but at least it’s a criminal I know. She’ll be able to provide the discretion Modesty needs.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Damiana said, but she was grinning. “I can pass the message along. I’m assuming this job offer has its perks?”

“She’ll get a good wage,” Percival said. “And if she wants I can provide room and board at no charge. She need not stay forever and when she leaves she will receive a glowing reference from a good family, so long as she performs her duties adequately. And you can rest assured she won’t have an employer with wandering hands or ill intentions.”

“And she’ll be able to live in New York without her mother’s meddling,” Damiana added, dryly. “She will undoubtedly need to change her name in order to work for someone with MACUSA ties. That “discretion” you mentioned.”

“Perhaps.”

“Well.” Damiana sat up, dusting her hands over her coat. “I’ll let her know. You’re a good man, Percival Graves. I just wish you didn’t give me so many reasons to dislike you.”

“I feel similarly.”

She smirked. Then, for a moment, her voice softened. “I have never wanted to have my own children,” she said. “But adopting my babies is the most rewarding and wonderful thing I’ve ever done, and I commend you for what you’re doing. Good luck, Percy.”

“I’ll see you around, Damiana.”

She turned on her heel to leave. “Sooner than you’d like, I expect,” he heard he say.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say about this? I'm so sorry I took so long. Stuff has been Happening in my life, so plans to finish this sucker by the end of October clearly didn't pan out.  
> Anyway!
> 
> A trip down into Newt's suitcase is always a fun thing to read, and I've seen several iterations of it while reading my own share of FB fanfic, so it was a weird thing to write and I'm sure other writers have done it far better than I have. Instead of focusing on the creatures we saw in the film, I decided to bring in the crup, which is a Jack Russell-type doggo creature with a forked tail. Since I always like to point out when JKR writes something weird or just plain stupid in my opinion, the crup 1. Is incredibly vicious towards muggles, and 2. wizard owners are required to painlessly and magically remove the second tail so as to make it appear more dog-like just in case a muggle does see it. But when you have to stringently keep the dog separated from muggles anyway due to how it acts towards them, what the Hell is the point of the tail removal? Newt would definitely put his foot down on that trend! :|  
> Also I have a Jack Russell terrier and just really think Tina deserves to have a scruffy dog to cuddle while she heals <3
> 
> A quick google of the [NY Times for January 7 1927](https://secure-images.rarenewspapers.com/ebayimgs/2.32.2009/image059.jpg) gave me something I could reference while Percival was reading the newspaper.


	31. major crimes department

It had been quite the weekend. Percival had been absent for almost the entirety of Saturday, and it was no secret where: when he wasn't with Modesty he had stuck to the President’s side from morning until, Tina was sure, the late hours. She was reminded again of the rumours that often floated through the criminal underworld every now and then, that the Director and the President were romantically inclined towards one another. Tina knew that such a thing was _currently_ false, but she did wonder at the basis for those rumours, and if they had ever been true.

Not that she was worried for the moment. Percival’s loyalty was unquestioned, as was the moral fibre of the President. Percival had made mention that the President and James Talon had gone to school together, and though Tina had not attended, the speech Picquery gave for the public funeral had, as reported by several others, been incredibly moving. Tina had a suspicion that Percival was following the President around for a handful of personal reasons next to his career requirements, and she wasn’t about to question him over it, not now. Not when they had so much left to do.

It was true she had been an Auror again for the past few weeks, but on Monday Tina was entering the Woolworth Building for the first time under that role since her demotion to the Wand Permit Office. She walked in with Queenie, the both of them keeping their heads down, low in conversation as if they couldn’t be bothered with anything else. They squeezed into the elevator together, bidding each other goodbye for the time being when Queenie stepped out onto her floor.

Going back to Major Crimes, without the shame hanging over her head, was an exhilarating rush. She had dressed to impress, in a suit that fit her quite slimly at the top, with trousers that had a slight billow to them that ended in shiny but sensible black boots. New Orleans had left something of an impression on her, she realized, as she had gotten dressed that morning. The usual clothes weren’t going to cut it anymore. To her surprise, without the spectre of Queenie hovering about her – for though her sister didn’t mean to, she was something of a judgmental shadow – she had found herself taking an interest in clothes far beyond what she needed to. She wondered if Percival had undergone something similar, when he was younger; perhaps only in the last decade he had perfected such a sleek, impressive style of clothing?

Something to ask and maybe tease him about, later.

The department was thick with the scent of coffee and the noise of chatter, the latter of which quieted slightly as she passed by. She ignored it, heading straight for the familiar figure of Percival, hands on Seline Marcos’ desk, bent forward slightly as he considered the files spread across the surface. Marcos herself was across the room having a somewhat animated talk with Vidal.

“Tina,” Percival said. As usual he spoke in his calm, quiet way; as usual, everyone in a four-foot radius immediately stopped talking to look at him in case they were being addressed. Percival didn’t often raise his voice. “Glad to have you back. Seline?”

“Sir,” Marcos said, hurrying up. She already had a fresh coffee stain on her blouse, and from the looks of her eyes, she hadn’t been sleeping. Tina saw Percival frown, but he didn’t remark on it.

“Both of you go to the hospital and take another statement from Kate Masters. I have a feeling she will shed some light on our current predicament.” He motioned both Tina and Seline forward. “Before that, though, I need you to make a stop in New Orleans.”

Looking down at the files on Marcos’ desk, Tina saw a photo of the Mope home, where she had tracked Tobias and Irene; where Veronique had died. It appeared to be a photo taken in summer, as the garden was in full bloom. “Tobias Mope’s parents have shown up from whatever holiday they’ve been on and are currently threatening the full weight of the law against MACUSA,” Graves said. “They’ve hired an attorney who has a particular vendetta against me, to boot.”

“On what grounds?” Selina asked, looking offended. “The evidence against Tobias Mope is… well, there’s a lot of it, right?”

“There is,” Percival agreed. “But as for what grounds, well – _their_ grounds. The Mopes haven’t been able to set foot on their New Orleans property since they returned, so they are claiming MACUSA is locking them out for the purposes of evidence tampering, amongst a number of other reasons we might have to keep them out.”

“Why can’t they, though?” Tina asked, puzzled.

Percival gave her an even look. “Kate Masters might have the answer to that,” he said. “But I want you to go over the grounds again, especially the spot where Veronique Gallo died. Seline, you were there for her last moments; I want you to walk Tina through it.”

  


Percival was to be phasing himself out of the investigation, Tina knew that much. She was as well, for that matter; once the brunt of their work was completed, Seline and Vidal would be the ones taking the lead. She would be transferred, soon. While that didn’t mean she would be away from New York, her attentions would be focused towards a different city.

“Have you chosen an office yet?” Seline asked her as they headed towards the Floo Hall.

“Not yet,” Tina said. She’d gotten offers from Chicago, Savannah, and Los Angeles, but most mysteriously appealing was the offer from New Orleans. Something drew her there; but was it enough to relocate?

“Think you’ll move, wherever you go?”

“I don’t know,” Tina mused. “I could Floo to my new office from here no problem. I suppose it depends.”

“I suppose,” Seline echoed.

They didn’t speak again until they were walking down the boulevard towards the Mope house, back in New Orleans. The temperature was a bit lower than it had been in the weeks before, but it was still balmy compared to New York.

Though approaching the house from the front, they ignored the front door, instead skirting around to the side. There was a strange feeling in the air, like a buzzing that tickled her skin. If Tobias’ parents had been unable to enter their property, had it been that buzzing keeping them out? Why were people like Tina and Seline able to pass?

Though it had been last week, the carnage of the grounds seemed fresh. Where topiaries had been blasted apart, they remained in the grass. Same with the branches of fruit trees that had been caught in the fray. The grass still looked partially trampled from the fight and ensuing investigation. The only thing that looked old was the blood Seline lead her too, brown and ugly in the grass. “It was here,” she said.

“Have you been back since?” Tina asked.

“No. We finished cataloguing the scene that day. The house has been left undisturbed since then.”

Tina lowered herself in a crouch in the grass. She felt the hair on the back of her arms raise, and goosebumps tingle their way down her spine. She pressed her fingertips into the grass, at the edge of where the bloodstain was.

Suddenly she felt breath on the back of her neck.

She turned, startled, expecting to see Seline leaning down over her. But the other Auror was standing a few feet away, watching her. She raised her eyebrows at the look on Tina’s face. “What is it?” she asked.

Tina didn’t answer, just turned back to the bloodstain. It seemed oddly small. Where had the bullet hit Veronique? Somewhere soft, somewhere vital. It had been meant for Tina.

Throttling down the guilt that suddenly raged upwards, she straightened up and looked around her at the yard again. The longer she looked, the stranger the untouched feeling of the crime scene seemed to her. The leaves of broken branches had not even wilted; they seemed fresh and intact, as if they were still growing. She toed the grass next to the blood stain, thinking carefully.

“So what happened?” she asked, finally.

“Gallo took awhile to die, considering the blood loss,” Seline said, frankly. “She was holding onto life pretty tightly. But when she went, she went. Slipped away.”

“Did she say anything?”

“She spoke with that girl, Geneva Rawley,” Seline said. “Things about her job at the shop, and the people who would be coming by to try and collect on her death. Instructions on her burial and how to destroy her corpse. I guess graverobbing is something of a business out here.”

“It’s a thing everywhere thanks to No-Majs and their medical studies, but I can imagine a few more reasons magical folk might do it out here,” Tina said. “Anything else?”

“Maybe,” the other Auror said. “I had to restrain Tobias Mope and he was shouting up a storm. Gallo took his eye out, did you hear? Or maybe it was Rawley – one’s dead and the other two aren’t talking about it. But it was dark magic. No one’s managed to get that eye to grow back.”

A grim smile flickered across Tina’s lips. She could imagine what a blow that was to vain, self-centred Tobias. Perhaps that had been the point. “When she died, was there…” she grappled for the word. “An event?”

“Like what?”

“A change in the atmosphere. Or a noise. Something happening in conjunction with her death.”

Seline shook her head.

Tina looked around at the yard again. She thought she caught a breath of flowers in the air. She turned on her heel. “Let’s go to St Vincent’s,” she said.

As they left the house, she felt a hand on her wrist. Seline Marcos was striding in front of her.

  


Walking through the hospital halls when just days ago she had been a patient there was an interesting experience, but she felt refreshingly anonymous there. She thought she caught a glimpse of Antoinne at the end of one hall, but she was headed in another direction. She would have to say hello another time.

Kate Masters was set up in a room surrounded by a slew of empty ones, as if to further keep her separated. When Tina walked in past the guards, she saw the other woman in bed propped up on several fluffy pillows and listening to the radio. She was pale, and much of the joyful plumpness had left her cheeks. She was still pretty, but it was a ghostly beauty.

Warmth was in her face, though, when she caught sight of Tina. “Hello, liar,” she greeted, carefully propping herself up.

Unfazed, Tina drew up the nearest chair, closer to the bed. “Good morning, Kate,” she said. “You look well.”

“Thank you.” Kate’s head tipped to the side, looking over at Seline. “I see you brought the pretty one back.”

“I’m the pretty one?” Selina asked, amused.

Tina waved her hand. “Stop flirting,” she said. “What about Jade?”

“Oh, Jade,” Kate sighed. “I’m afraid this whole mess scared her off. Not that I can blame her. I’m back to my wild and wilful ways. Anyway. I suppose you’re here to ask me more questions. I don’t see why, because I’ve already been interrogated within an inch of my life.” She gestured to her hospital bed. “As you can see.”

“The standing belief is you’ll have more to tell Tina,” Seline said, a faint smile on her lips.

“Oh?” Kate raised an eyebrow. “That’s your name, Tina? I prefer Mariana.”

“I’m sure you do,” Tina said. “And don’t act like Geneva Rawley hasn’t snuck in here and already told you everything, along with a grovelling apology for getting us all in this mess in the first place. MACUSA knows everything.”

Kate grinned. “So I see. Well, Miss Goldstein, Miss Beautiful, what can I help you with?”

Tina motioned for Seline to pull up a chair as well, rather than hovering in the background. “We were just at the Mope house,” she said. “I know you’ve been… informed, about what happened there.”

Just like that, the smile dropped from Kate’s face. Tina had expected that, but there was no avoiding it. “Where Ronny died,” she said. “Cursed and bleeding.”

“Yes.”

“So?”

“Something has happened to the grounds,” Tina said. “It seems… alive. Or thriving, somehow.”

“The Mope family has been unable to enter,” Selina said. “We’re curious if there’s a reason to that. A warding, perhaps.”

Kate was silent, looking down at her blankets. The radio announced a new song and the strains of jazz began to fill the room. Finally, she said, “Do you remember that first time we had lunch together? You, me, and Veronique?”

Tina smiled. “I do. But refresh my memory?”

“We talked for awhile about the Dark Arts,” Kate said, softly. “And Veronique spoke about how we need to be properly trained before we can wield it. But even when we do, it’s like a sword, and we can still cut ourselves upon it if we don’t give it the right amount of respect. Do you remember?”

“I remember,” Tina said.

She could feel Seline listening closely. Tina did her best to ignore her, though. Her life and her career could not move forward if she was too dependent on what others thought of her actions. Percival had been the one to truly teach her that.

So she reached out and took Kate’s hand, rubbing her thumb over the back of the other woman’s knuckles. Kate smiled thankfully. “Veronique had a collection of books somewhere,” she said. “I’m not sure where, exactly, but she had it. Perhaps Tobias had access to it somehow and that was how he learned to curse us. When you speak to him, that would be the most important thing to ask; a library like that needs to be contained and protected.”

Tina nodded. “I agree.” However, she had a suspicion Geneva might be able to help her in that regard more than Tobias could.

Kate pulled her hand away, withdrawing, tucking some of her blonde hair behind her ear. “The Dark Arts need to be treated with respect, but you also need to understand it,” she said. “I don’t have a handle on it, myself; I probably never will and that’s fine by me. Veronique, though, it was in her blood.”

“She had evil in her?” Seline asked.

Kate snorted, weakly. “Good and evil are concepts that change with people,” she said. “But light and dark, those are realities. Veronique had both, that’s all. The day and the night. She knew what she was doing and she was always wary of those that didn’t.”

“What does this have to do with the Mope house?” Tina asked.

“Just that,” Kate said. “It’s their home, or it was. If Tobias cursed Veronique, he created a connection between them. What he did to me was just a spell,” she added, “A bad one. But what he did to Ronny? You have to put a lot of yourself into that. A lot of your blood.”

Tina rubbed her chin with the back of her hand. “Did she curse the Mopes?” she asked, quietly. “By cursing Tobias?”

Kate shrugged. “It’s likely. Ronny said part of the danger in magic was when you put something strong out, there was always the risk of something being sent back. With Light magic, that’s not such a bad thing. But the Dark? You need to be prepared to have that barrel back at you. If Ronny died the way everyone says she did, she wasn’t very strong. But it would be easy to send something down the line to Tobias. And her blood went into the soil, into the lawn. A part of her is still there with it.”

“Is it possible Veronique Gallo is haunting the Mope house?” Seline asked. Tina’s glance flickered for a moment to her fellow Auror; so Seline had felt something strange there, too.

Kate sighed and closed her eyes. “It’s possible,” she admitted. “In a way, she could be. A piece of her…” she trailed off.

After several long moments of silence, Tina asked, “Kate?”

“I’m tired,” the blonde witch murmured. “No more questions.”

Tina and Seline traded glances; Tina nodded. Seline rose to her feet. “Very well,” she said. “Thanks for your time, Miss Masters. Just so you know, you’ve been cleared for this investigation; once you’re healthy, you can go home.”

“Home,” Kate repeated, wryly. Tina remembered that there wasn’t a home left; it had collapsed that night on New Year’s Eve.

They began to leave.

“Wait.” Tina turned to see Kate’s eyes open again, looking at her. Her gaze was deep, penetrating. “I almost forgot,” she said. “Thank you for saving my life. I know it wasn’t easy.”

“You’re welcome,” Tina said. “But I didn’t have a choice.”

“Of course you did,” Kate said. “There’s always a choice. You made the risky one. I appreciate it.”


	32. what women are like

She was being watched, she knew, beyond the walls of the interrogation room. But by who? Marcos and Vidal, certainly. Percival was elsewhere, doing whatever it was he did for his responsibilities as Director. But there were undoubtedly some younger Aurors observing; maybe a trainee or two that could serve to learn from her. Forcefully, she pushed them out of her mind, and instead focused on the man sitting across from her.

Tina tapped her nails lightly against the table. Tobias Mope stared back at her with his single eye, which was glittering absently. It was an unintelligible look; not stupid but beyond her ken, like looking into the eye of a wild bird, or a shark. She shifted in her seat. “I have your statements here,” she said, using her fingertip the flutter the edges of the parchment in front of her. “You blame everything on Irene Taxley. You say it was her influence that brought you around to Gellert Grindelwald's ideologies.”

He didn't answer.

Tina leaned back in her seat, rubbing her chin with the back of her hand. She was not frightened of Tobias Mope, even though during the investigation he had been classified as highly dangerous once they had him imprisoned. He was more talented than Tina had assumed, but still not as dangerous as someone could have been, wielding the magics he had.

“I don't believe it,” she said.

Finally, Tobias moved; a careful raise of the eyebrow. “I don't care if you don't believe it,” he said.

“It would have been Taxley who brewed the zombie potions for you,” Tina continued, as if he hadn't spoken. “Aurors are required to have an aptitude for potions. But the intent all came from yourself. Did you ever love Veronique at all?”

A smile flickered across his face. “Of course I did,” he said.

Tina felt a slight chill, because in that moment she had no idea if he was lying or not. She wanted him to be; but what the world was, and what she wanted, would undoubtedly always be at odds.

“I think she loved you,” she said, taking a different track. “That's how you got under her skin.”

“Love makes you weak, if you're not careful,” Tobias said. “Percival Graves is in love with you, isn't he? Good.”

“Alas, you won't be around long enough to see how that works out,” Tina said, wanting to be flippant, but it came out more sharply than she intended.

Tobias gave a harsh laugh. “It won't,” he said. “Percival Graves has too many enemies. How long do you think it will take for Grindelwald to catch up with him and finish what he started? And now there's you. How will he keep an eye on his surroundings when he only has eyes for you? You'll be the death of him eventually. That's love.”

Tina drew her hand underneath the table so that, unseen, she could curl her hand into a fist, her nails biting into her own palm.

“That's love,” she repeated, forcing herself to keep her voice even, calm, to not let her gaze waver from his. “Speaking of. Your parents have lobbied for your release, but they have failed. The evidence of your crimes are insurmountable. In tracing the magic that has soaked itself into the grounds of your old home, our experts have determined that the root of the cause is you.”

“Veronique cursed my home, just like she cursed my eye,” he retorted. “She did it when she died. I felt it.”

Tina shook her head. “The magic bears your signature,” she said.

It was subtle, but she saw it: he paled.

“You know, those warnings about how what you put out into the universe might come back to you, can be _very_ real,” Tina continued. “I thought it was just fear-mongerng, myself. But it turns out a talented magician can reflect things back towards the centre. I learned that during my time in New Orleans. Funny, the different ways magic can work, isn't it?”

“If you execute me, there will be a class war,” Tobias ground out. “Irene is nothing, Veronique was nothing. _You're_ nothing, Miss Goldstein; the mongrel of dead parents, with an upbringing so unremarkable it will be forgotten long before you're gone. The only people that matter in this world are the capitalists, because they make the rules.”

“We are all equal under the law.”

“If you believe that, you're a fool.”

Tina tipped her head to the side. “Maybe,” she said. She felt her nails breaking through her own skin as she squeezed her fist tight again. She wanted to punch him, but instead she looked down at the files.

“Do you want to know what they say?” she asked.

“How I'm a criminal mastermind, I suspect,” he said. “How I'm responsible for everything. Tall tales and lies from Irene. Women are like that.”

“Women aren't like that,” Tina said. “You see, Irene took the blame for everything. I don't know what your appeal is, Mr Mope, but women are quite fond of you. Perhaps there's a certain side to your personality that brings it out in us; I'll never find out myself. You haven't any time left.”

Tobias narrowed his one, single eye. “Irene took the blame for everything.”

“That she did,” Tina agreed. “We know she's lying about it, but that's neither here nor there. All we are focusing on right now is physical evidence.”

“There is no physical evidence I have been anything but an unwilling bystander in all this,” Tobias snorted. Tina was amazed at him, at his callous confidence; she had a feeling she would remember it often, for years to come.

“In an idealogical movement, yes,” Tina agreed. “And if we take Miss Taxley's statement into full account, we would have to fight long and hard for proof that you have been a cornerstone in the plot to kidnap Modesty Barebone, instead of an unwilling pawn. We have only statements from a young woman, Geneva Rawley, which could be admissable should you get a skilled enough lawyer. But you'll never see court, Toby.”

“You're trying to frighten me and it's not going to work,” he said. “I'm not going to tell you anything.”

Tina took a breath and, underneath the table, uncurled her hand, flexing her fingers. Her palm had the white hot sting of being freshly cut. “You don't need to,” she said, lightly. She gathered up her papers and stood, forcing Tobias to look up at her to maintain eye contact.

“As you well know,” she said, “an attempt on the life of our President is not only treason, but an automatic death sentence. I'm afraid your connection to the voodoo doll you thought belonged to Percival Graves led straight to me. It did work, for the record, just not on the person you thought it would. Veronique is – was – a very gifted witch. Not only is there a trail of witnesses as long as my arm who can vouch for its use, but an examination of the doll itself revealed only one person ever tried to put it to use. Irene Taxley never handled it at all.”

“I've been framed,” he immediately spat out, and for the first time since she entered the room he looked scared.

Tina didn't answer right away, carefully rearranging the papers before tucking them underneath one elbow. “If Percival Graves only has eyes for me, like you said, then I suppose I'll have to watch out for enemies for him,” she said. “One less for him to worry about will be a good start. I have to say, I can't wait to send you to Veronique. She'll tear you apart.”

Tobias' expression flickered, and for a moment Tina realized that his lover's vengeful spirit was, indeed, a real threat. “You can't prove any of this.”

“We already have, and we've taken it through all the proper checks and balances,” she said. “We work pretty quickly, here at MACUSA, especially when it comes to defending our own. Your execution date is set for three days from now. If you cooperate with the final stages of the investigation, well, you might be able to persuade someone to let you see your parents before that day. Say goodbye properly.”

Tobias tried to stand, but the shackles holding him to the interrogation table stopped him halfway. “You're not prepared for this, Tina Goldstein,” he spat. “This job will have your hands covered in blood before too long, just like your beloved Percival Graves. He is as evil and marked as they come. You think I'm bad? Ask him. Ask him what happens to your soul, how much is left after the world takes you apart piece by piece-”

Tina stopped at the doorway, looking over her shoulder. She was staring at a dead man, she knew; dead by her hand, for all intents and purposes. But she thought back to Gossamy, to the knife she buried in him, the throat she slit. She had killed him, yes. But he had been the one to put her in the position to kill him. And it was Tobias' crimes that brought him here, to this point, shackled inside of the Major Crimes Department, awaiting execution. A cog in the machine of justice would always get dirty, she realized, and that was all she was.

“Probably,” she said, and then Percival's words came out of her mouth. “But I've saved more lives than I've ended. I can make peace with that eventually.”

She left him, then, knowing that he would still haunt her, for a long, long time.

 

She didn't notice Seline falling into step beside her.

“Ready for the party tonight?” she mentioned, casually.

“Huh?” Tina blinked, looked over to the other woman. “Oh, that's right. Yes, I am.”

They walked in silence for a moment or two more, before Seline spoke again.

“That was strange, what he said about Mr Graves being in love with you.”

That's right; everyone had heard. Tina hadn't even noticed, so concerned was she with everything else. “Oh, yes. I suppose.” 

“I thought he had something of a thing for your sister, actually,” Seline continued. “I mean, they've been spending some time together. And with his new fosterling,” she added the last part fondly. While it was not common knowledge who Modesty was, technically – Percival had strong-armed the press into not badgering him about it, and the only thing reported was that Percival had taken on a ward, who the journalists seemed to find very adorable – most in Major Crimes understood she had been in danger at some point and a target of Grindewald. Percival's fostering of Modesty was considered an admirable act, an extension of his obligation to protect her.

“I hadn't really noticed,” Tina said. “But Queenie's easy to love.”

“She is. But you know,” Seline added, “so are you.”

Tina gave her an amused look.

“I'm serious,” Seline smiled. “You've always been dependable. It was nice having you around, and boring when you were gone. I'm just disappointed some other office is going to get you, now.”

“Chicago,” Tina supplied. “I picked Chicago.”

Seline raised her eyebrows. “That's quite the city, Tina.”

“I know. I'll be posted there officially by the end of the week.” By the time Tobias Mope was dead.

“Well," Seline said, stopping short as Tina got into the elevator, still speaking before the doors closed. "I guess we'll have to have to make up for lost time tonight. I'll see you at the party?"

Tina smiled. "I'll see you there," she said, as the grate was pulled shut.

 

She thought about continuing the investigation. Of finding Veronique's library, going through her things. She did not feel disappointed that she was passing the opportunity by; rather she was pleased to move past it. There was no need to understand the minutiae of the curses, the magic, or the political upheavals that had rocked her existence for the past few weeks. Her job had been completed. It was time to move on to the next puzzle.

That was the hallmark of being at the head of the game, she realized. The ability to see the big picture and the strength and understanding to move on, without sifting through the details. That was what other people were for. It was what _she_ used to do, but she had been nudged past that in the course of her undercover work. She was on her way to promotion, to jumping higher in the food chain. Money, excitement, danger. Her dreams. It was all she had wanted for a long time; when her initial infatuation with Percival had faded, those years ago when she had become an Auror, it had been replaced with envy. His was the job she wanted.

Things kept changing; _she_ kept changing.

She tried on her dress for the evening, paused to inspect herself in the mirror. After a moment she went back to the side drawer next to her bed, and brought out the violet necklace. She draped it around her neck.

She would willingly throw her whole future away for Percival Graves, she realized, in the same way he would do for her – had tried to, in fact, before Picquery stopped him. She had never in her wildest dreams believed she would meet a man who would support her in her career the way he had. _No one wants an Auror for a wife_ , she remembered hearing one of the girls in the typing pool say, sourly. Incorrectly, it turned out.

She put her hands to her waist and surveyed her reflection. Her eyebrows weren't quite right for the current fashion; she hated the idea of having to draw them on. The dark lipstick made her lips thin. But her figure was fashionable, at least to European tastes; not the baby doll look favoured in America, but good enough.

She smoothed her hair back from her face. It was back to being brown.

There was a noise from the kitchen, and she wandered out to see Newt emerging from the suitcase.

“You're sure you don't want to come?” she asked, not for the first time. “You could be my date.”

“I'm afraid the President would deport me if she saw me,” Newt said, yet again, rather bashfully. “You look lovely, Tina.”

“Thank you.”

“Is the party already starting?” he asked, glancing at the clock.

She shook her head. “Not for a few hours, but I have to be there soon. It's, um. A hostess thing.”

He nodded.

She was struck by an urge to hug him, and she wondered at it. There was something about him, just then. She felt like there was another reason to him being in New York besides herself and Queenie, and also that it wasn't paranoia that made her think that. Respecting his privacy, as well as not wanting to sound rude, she did not bring it up.

Instead she brushed a feather from his shoulder. “Someone down there is molting,” she said, glancing at the open suitcaser. He gave her a bit of a smile and her worries evaporated.

“I'll see you tomorrow morning,” she said, over her shoulder, grabbing her coat. She didn't notice that he failed to respond in kind.

 

“Welcome to my house, Tina.”

Tina allowed a footman to take her coat, and she followed Violetta Beauvais up the stairs onto the second floor.

“I suppose it wouldn't surprise you to know this isn't the first time I've seen you since I saw you off at the Rawley's,” Violetta said, not turning around. “You look a sight better.”

It was not hard for her to put two and two together. “You were at the hospital?” she asked. "The expert they called in."

“Not many know wand wood the way I do.”

“Why did you come?”

“Seraphina asked me to,” Violetta answered, settling down on a chair on her balcony. “Sit, child. Have a drink. Yes, I dug it all out of you, down to the last splinter.”

Tina accepted the glass of wine that was handed to her. She leaned back, looking out over the rooftops of New Orleans. There was chaos and madness, yes, but there was beauty and mystery as well. “Why did you want to have this party?”

“Because I like reminding people I'm here,” Violetta cackled. Tina didn't believe her, but she didn't pry. Someone like Violetta, after all, did not say anything she didn't want to say.

There was the sound of the front door opening and closing, but there was no knock, no ring of the doorbell. Violetta did not seem concerned. In a few moments Seraphina Picquery appeared, her face changing from tired and drawn to full of life, lovely, so quickly Tina almost fooled herself into thinking she had imagined it.

The president opened her mouth to speak. Tina leaned forward, slightly, preparing herself, waiting for this one final dose of wisdom before the evening was doused with revelry.

Seraphina Picquery said, “Try not to get too drunk, Goldstein.”


	33. new orleans, 1927

It was a beautiful night. The kind of night where a young couple could stroll arm in arm, enjoying one another’s company, with the sky laid out above them and the streets before them.

Nights like these reminded Queenie of paintings, the ones she saw in grand old houses or homey offices, featuring paired silhouettes strolling lightly down a moonlit path. Newt was not her paramour, but he was a preferred companion as they walked through New Orleans. Queenie was not much interested in anyone who was not Jacob, and Newt knew that.

She had known what Newt was planning to do; that was why she left work early, arriving at the apartment to ready herself before he was able to make his escape. “Just wait a moment, honey,” she said. “Escort me to the party first.”

Now, done up in her best dress and lipstick, she hung on one of Newt's arms, his other holding the infamous suitcase. They strolled in silence, listening to the music that seemed to ebb and flow through the streets like water down a stream. She was surprised that she was not the one to break the quiet between them. She almost always was.

“Have you ever been to the circus, Queenie?” Newt asked.

Queenie tipped her head to the side, curiously. “Not since I was a little girl,” she said. “Our parents took me and Tina, once.”

“Hm,” Newt said.

She stared at him, at his sharp, bold profile that housed, somehow, some of the softest eyes she had ever come across. She did her best not to read, but Newt was always so open with his thoughts and feelings. And they were often beautiful, too, like wildflowers spread lazily across a grassy plain.

“The circus?” she asked.

“It’s one of the few ways to travel without attracting too much attention,” Newt said, tucking his hands into his coat pockets. “A good way to hide in plain sight.”

“How many circuses are there?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” Newt admitted. “And it’s only a thought.”

“I know you came back because of Tina,” Queenie said. “But not _just_ because of Tina. You can talk to me, Newt. I hope you know that.”

He gave her a small, fragile smile. “You’ll never stop reading my mind, will you?”

“It’s hard not to,” Queenie admitted. She laid her fingertips on his elbow for a moment, and added with a grin, “I’m getting used to the accent.”

To her delight, he laughed a little at that.

“I think here is where I'll leave you,” he said. They were two blocks away from their destination. He looked uncomfortable, as if he was worried of being spotted by anyone that might recognise him. Queenie patted the back of his hand, letting him know that she understood.

“I look forward to seeing you again later,” she said. “Don't be a stranger, Newt. You know you're always welcome with us.”

“I know,” he said. “Goodbye, Queenie. Tell Tina I said goodbye?”

“Of course,” she smiled. “Safe travels, honey.”

Once he was gone, disappearing into the night, Queenie rearranged her gauzy stole around herself and continued walking. She was not surprised to see, on the next block, Percival Graves waiting patiently for her. _Tina_ , she thought wryly.

“Miss Goldstein,” he greeted. He was unfairly handsome in his black and ivory tux, not that he seemed aware of it. “Might I escort you the rest of the way?”

“And if I say no?”

“I will follow you at a safe distance, as I am under orders.”

She laughed, and they fell into step.

“You know, everyone thinks I’ve been romancing you,” Queenie remarked. “They think I must be grateful for all you’ve done for Tina. Quite a few think we make an attractive couple. Of course, there’s talk I’ve no business with someone like you. Out of my league.”

“That’s rather classist,” Percival remarked, though he was smiling faintly. Queenie studied his expression, yet again feeling pleased for her sister. “I suppose we _have_ been spending an unusual amount of time together, for people who are in entirely different departments.”

“But an acceptable time together for a man trying to get into the good graces of his lover’s younger sister,” Queenie pointed out.

For a moment she could swear Percival Graves actually looked a little embarrassed. It probably had something to do with her rather declarative use of the word _lover_. “Well,” he said. “What is the status of said grace?”

“Very good,” she assured him.

The activity as they neared their destination was nearly alarming, but it seemed not a single No-Maj seemed to take notice of the colourful personalities that teemed the sidewalks and seemed particularly attracted to the delicately wrought iron fence of a grand home at the end of the street. She didn’t know if there was a spell in place, or it was just that the people of New Orleans never batted an eyelash at this sort of revelry.

Queenie knew whose house it was because Tina had told her, but she assumed it would be quite the shock to anyone who was unaware as they made their way to the front door. Violetta Beauvais was a stunning figure, for while she had invited guests in their finest attire she herself was wearing an old men’s suit tailored to her gaunt figure, her fedora perched at a rakish angle on her head. She did not mingle or small talk with her guests but sat, judgmental and imposing, upon a chair placed strategically on the second floor balcony of her grand double-gallery house.

Beside her, standing at the rail, lounging easily in a gold robe embroidered with black and copper, was the President. She watched with hooded eyes the comings and goings of MACUSA’S law enforcers and their guests, as well as a handful of others from the cream of New Orlean’s wizarding scene. As soon as Percival opened the gate for Queenie, Picquery leaned over the rail and called down.

“Upstairs if you please, Mr Graves,” she ordered. “Our host would have words with you. I’m sure young Miss Goldstein does not need your help navigating the crowd.”

“Miss Goldstein,” Percival said by way of excusing himself, before moving to head towards the stairs.

Queenie turned and found herself in one of the most interesting houses she had ever seen. It was brimming with what she could only consider to be magical paraphernalia: carved wooden statues loomed from corners, strange leafy plants quivered along the walls. There were endless places to sit, endless lamps and tables and books and ashtrays to admire, endless places where a drink might be stirred and enjoyed.

She wondered where Tina was, for she hadn’t glimpsed her standing with the President or Beauvais. While the party wasn’t really _for_ Tina, a lot of her coworkers were treating it as such, and Queenie wouldn't have been surprised to find her sister hiding in the relative safety of Violetta Beauvais’ dangerous presence. Perhaps she was sequestered elsewhere, avoiding the spotlight.

What the party _was_ , Tina had revealed to her, was mostly a favour from Picquery pulled in at the request of Violetta Beauvais herself, though Tina wasn't sure why: her theory was Violetta's interest in MACUSA had been awakened by her meeting Tina and Percival. If Queenie had been surprised then to discover how willingly the President was at pleasing an old wandmaker, well, that surprise dissipated the moment she was in the house and fully comprehended what kind of witch - and icon - she was.

“Hey Mr Abernathy," Queenie greeted, upon rounding a corner to see him there. She could tell he was ill at ease, though remarkably he did not show it as he stood speaking with an Obliviator. As the head of what was technically a law enforcement department he had warranted an automatic invitation, and it was clear due to her legilimency that he was only there out of duty, not enjoyment.

“Queenie, hi,” he said. He looked like he was about to say more, but abruptly shut up; Queenie looked over her should to see that Madame Picquery had appeared. Up close, she was even more breathtaking.

“Sorry to have stolen your escort, Miss Goldstein,” she said, in a way that made it clear she was not actually about to have a conversation; she was making the rounds, politely, and Queenie was merely a stop. “I assure you he is not riveting company.”

“That's fine,” Queenie said. “I love your dress, Madame President.”

She seemed taken aback at the compliment, as if no one ever flattered her. “Ah. Thank you.” Her gaze flickered to Abernathy, who was staring at her, rather wide-eyed. “Hello.”

“Madame President,” he blurted out.

“Hm. Wand Permit Office, yes?” she said, and Queenie watched him flush at realizing the president knew his face, if not his name.

“Yes,” he said. “Abernathy.”

“Abernathy,” Picquery said, “go and get me a gigglewater.”

He was off like a shot.

“I'll undoubtedly see you later on, Miss Goldstein,” Picquery said, drifting unconcernedly off before hailing down one of the Aurors.

Queenie headed deeper into the house until she was waved over to where Ruth stood with Ruby, the former having managed an invitation by cozying up to one of the members of the beast retrieval squad. “Isn't this amazing?” she glowed, as Queenie picked up a glass of champagne. “You know Violetta Beauvais is supposed to be one of the most powerful magicians in the United States? And we're in _her house_.”

Queenie made an agreeable noise and sipped her drink. She found that was all she had to do to have a conversation with Ruth.

“I already asked Sam, and he said Madame Beauvais won't let anyone take any photographs,” Ruth continued. “Someone tried about a half hour ago, the camera blew up and he was pitched out onto the street.”

“I wouldn't be surprised if there was a tongue-tying charm on this place, to stop us from talking about it,” Ruby remarked, innocently enough, though Ruth gave her a dark look. Queenie snorted into her drink.

But then Ruth dug her elbow into Queenie's side, suddenly distracted. “Look at that,” she said, under her breath.

There was a man standing by the piano, laughing with the pianist. He had gently curling black hair and his skin was warm and lovely looking. He looked as if he was a movie star. He placed his empty glass down on a side table, smiled at a woman who passed him by; and then his eyes were drawn across the room at, Queenie thought at first, the group of them.

“Oh, he's coming this way!” Ruth hissed.

“You arrived here with someone else,” Queenie laughed. Ruth rolled her eyes dismissively.

He drew near. “Miss Goldstein,” the man said, and Queenie knew, before her companions, that he was not talking to her.

Tina appeared from an open doorway that had led out into the nearest hallway. Queenie had finally changed her hair back to brown, and she was pleased to see her sister looked especially good with it while wearing a dark blue dress. “Hello, Mr Faust,” she said.

“I'm due to sing in an hour, but until then, care to dance?” he asked. “It's been an absolute age.”

In answer, Tina held out her hand. Queenie laughed in delight when Ruth and Ruby's mouths fell open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lil something for the Serabernathy fans <3


	34. moonlight (an epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We say goodbye; Modesty says hello.

The house was silent. Hours earlier, Geneva had made her a cup of hot cocoa and sent her to bed; shortly afterard, Geneva herself had retired to her rooms. But Modesty had not gone to sleep.

She was convinced that despite living on the top floor of the house, away from everyone else, Percival noticed everything that went on in his home. Just then, though, he was absent, attending some party, and so without fear of discovery Modesty slipped out of bed. She tiptoed down the halls, passing by the half-open door to Geneva's room, and quietly made her way downstairs.

The house was tall and narrow, and there was something riveting about the staircase, which she could look up and see spiralling along the centre of the house all the way to the top. But it was dark, now, and looking up showed her nothing but the next floor above her, disappearing into murky blackness. That was fine; she meant to gaze elsewhere tonight, anyway.

She made it to the ground floor without incident, bare feet treading the plush carpet underfoot as she wove her way into the sitting room, where earlier that evening she had hugged Percival goodbye before he left. He had smelt strongly of sweet tobacco smoke, which comforted her. The scent was in the rest of the house, too, but faint; it was stronger when he was around, a silent signal that all was well.

She remembered how a woman, whom Percival had directed she call Aunt Gloria, had arrived with some of Modesty's new cousins earlier in the week. Though Knightley and Hollis were both boys, they were roughly her age, and not shy. Soon they were wheeling throughout the house laughing and shrieking with their play, while Aunt Gloria bossed Percival around.

“Absolutely no more smoking in the house,” Modesty heard her order at one point. “If you must smoke, do it in the study.” Percival had muttered something, then pretended not to have said anything at all when Gloria went, “ _What_?”

It was dark in the study but the moon was nearly full, its light so bright that it broke through the window, pushing past the gaps in the curtains. Geneva had drawn the drapes firmly shut that evening; something about the moon seemed to annoy her, but Modesty had not yet figured out what. When she asked, Geneva denied it, and Modesty didn't press her for details. When Geneva became irritated, she was far more strict about Modesty's bedtime, and was less effusive about giving her dessert.

Now, in the darkness, Modesty drew the curtains open.

During the visit, Gloria and Percival had ended up sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee. Modesty had slipped away from Hollis and Knightley, tiptoeing over to the doorway to eavesdrop for a moment. Adults and their conversations always made her curious.

“Two years until Ilvermorny,” Gloria was saying.

Percival nodded. “Yes.”

“You've been hearing some suggestions, though, I bet?”

“You mean besides yours?” he asked, archly, and Aunt Gloria smirked. “Yes, I have.”

“Do you think... her name...”

“That will be her decision,” he said firmly.

Gloria nodded. “Yes. But it will be something of a cross to bear...”

“Yes.”

“... in America.”

He shook his head.

“That's not an option,” he said. “She goes to Ilvermorny.”

“I know,” Aunt Gloria said, delicately. “I agree. But you will have people suggesting Hogw-”

“Absolutely not,” he had replied. “I'd rather give her back to that cult than let her anywhere near where that maniac is teaching.”

A tap on her shoulder and she had whirled around to see Geneva, her eyebrows raised. Caught in the act, Modesty had guiltily slunk away, before quickly running through the halls to find her cousins. Soon, the conversation was forgotten, but only for that moment.

Now Modesty leaned her elbows on the windowsill, staring at the moon, wondering what it had all meant. What _about_ her name? What was wrong with it? She wished Percival was home, and he would remind her that he cared for her and wanted to protect her, no matter what she was called.

Until then, though, she would have to content herself with the moon.

There was something funny about the sky. It was endless and yet oddly finite, because it existed there, like some kind of picture pasted overhead. Everyone could look at it, so long as they were outside or by a window, but so few people bothered. That was sometimes how Modesty felt about death; it was there to be seen, but she was the only person standing at a window, looking up.

She still felt the chill of seeing Mr James, dead, in her dreams. He had not returned ever since; that visit must have been fleeting, a stop he had made on his way out. She looked and looked for him, but he was gone. Now there was only the sky.

Who else was looking up, now, at the same moon?

She blinked at the moon, and then again, because it seemed like something dark had flickered in front of it. A shred of shadow she had seen before.

She thought nothing of it, until she realized her mouth was open, her lips moving. She was talking in silence. Startled, she puffed out a breath of surprise, and with air her voice came to life.

She had been saying, _hello, Credence, hello_.

 

.

 

“This will be your city soon,” Percival said.

There was something feral about Chicago; challenging. She remembered Percival mentioning that had been his last stop before heading to New York, but that wasn’t entirely why she went. She would be a stranger there, not like in New Orleans, which had a history now she wasn’t sure she was ready to face, not yet. For a moment she had been distracted by the glamour of Los Angeles and the mystery of Savannah, but at the end of the day Los Angeles felt too far, and Savannah too sleepy. And Chicago called to her.

She would still live in New York, for now. She would Apparate to MACUSA every morning, take the Floo network to her new office. But her desk in the Woolworth Building would be gone. Her life and focus would be Chicago, a dangerous city full of murder and mayhem. It had housed America’s first serial killer, had a nightlife unlike any other, and its No-Maj gangsters were notorious even to magical folk. The tension between No-Maj and Maj was tightly coiled these days, and the law divisions in Chicago were up to their elbows with it.

“Good,” Percival had said, when she had told him her decision. “Chicago needs more Aurors like you.”

They had left the party together, quite brazenly, when it was still in full swing. Percival had suggested a stroll; she had suggested Chicago. Now they walked arm in arm down Lincoln Avenue. It was cold, not like New Orleans, and she huddled close to him, breathing in his scent and luxuriating in his warmth. Though she could see the end of the street, she felt, somehow, that their walk could go on forever. _Would_ go on forever.

They passed the Biograph Theatre, colourful and exciting. Another time, perhaps, she would go inside and convince Percival to come with her, but for now she passed it by without a second thought.

“How is Modesty settling in?” she asked. She had rarely seen him in the past week, owing to their work; but also she wanted to give him some distance, allow him to get used to having a ward and a live-in caretaker suddenly taking up space in his home. “And Geneva?”

“They get along famously,” he replied. “I'm rather concerned I might be ousted, actually.”

“Never,” she said. “I'm sure your will is law.”

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. She snuggled against his side, revelling in his presence.

“I've missed having you all to myself,” he said, suddenly, echoing her feelings. She looked up at him through her eyelashes, then moved to kiss him high on the cheekbone. His face was cold from the wind, but just beneath she felt the warmth of his skin against her lips.

He stopped, there on the sidewalk, and turned to her, throwing his arms about her. There were a few chuckles from passersby as he kissed her but soon she ceased to hear anything at all save the roar of blood in her ears, the hammering of her heart in her throat. She slid her arms beneath his coat, hands at the small of his back. He was hers. All hers. Her chest felt full to the point of bursting, and she trembled, like a firework about to go off.

Oh, how she loved him.

“Take me somewhere, Mr Graves,” she breathed.

He did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that Albus Dumbledore was an old friend of Gellert Grindelwald's and considered the only person powerful enough to defeat him. Instead, he chose to become a teacher and literally ignore everything. His unwillingness to face Gellert meant that he spread unchecked until 1945; a lot of people died in that time. Albus Dumbledore is on the top of Percival and Seraphina's punch-in-the-face list.
> 
> Barebone is a terrible name to be saddled with in America, seeing as how the family was historically made up of blood traitors. Rest assured: by the time Modesty turns ten and goes to Ilvermorny, she will have been formally adopted and her name officially changed to Modesty Graves - much to the chagrin of Percival's family.


	35. final remarks

If you follow me on tumblr you might have seen my post the other week, stating I had no intention in updating the story again until I had everything finished. As I was typing along I noticed that the one year anniversary was approaching this weekend.

So, happy anniversary! For those of you who have been here since the beginning, thank you so much. For those who are reading this all in one go, hello, welcome to the party, and thank you for reaching the end despite it all.

Writing this was incredibly fun and wild, and as someone who has been writing fanfic in the good ole Harry Potter ‘verse for over fifteen years, I haven’t felt this kind of connection with readers in a long time.

For those who have commented faithfully on almost every chapter with your thoughts and feedback, I adore you. Those who commented once, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Don’t be mistaken: I was writing this fanfic for you. Writers are ridiculous creatures who doubt themselves at every turn and it’s hard to write for a silent audience. So thank you thank you thank you!

During the last year some amazing people have responded to this story and created their own stuff, so have a gander, okay? They deserve lots of love.

A [graphics set](http://definitelyoneoftheguys.tumblr.com/post/158584152686/they-call-it-the-rising-sun-by-shampain-for) by definitelyoneoftheguys

A [graphics set](http://vodkertonic.tumblr.com/post/157966153939/astronautrix-goldgraves-fic-they-call-it-the) by hanszimmr 

A [graphics set](http://just-things-i-like-mostly.tumblr.com/post/158279206529/gratuitous-goldgraves-aesthetic-thing-incoming) by just-things-i-like-mostly 

A[ gifset](http://definitelyoneoftheguys.tumblr.com/post/165622279226/they-call-it-the-rising-sun-by-shampain-for) by definitelyoneoftheguys 

A [piece of artwork](https://www.deviantart.com/art/Commission-They-call-it-the-Rising-Sun-675833988) by blackrussiansherry2 commissioned by just-things-i-like-mostly 

And shoutout to mulder-wtf on tumblr for being generally awesome and drawing some of the most [amazing GoldGraves stuff](http://mulder-wtf.tumblr.com/tagged/goldgraves).

My super talented frond Rvssia painted [this beautiful Goldgraves art for me](http://thervssian.tumblr.com/post/170201343896/a-commission-for-vodkertonic-of-her-otp-percival).

I will always update this page with anything new, if there is anything you ever want me to see, let me know :3

 

Shoutouts to the following songs for always getting the writing juices flowing: 

"Ramalama" and "Night of the Dancing Flame" by Roisin Murphy; "Until We Go Down" by Ruelle; "The House of the Rising Sun" by Nina Simone; "Kisses Over Babylon" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes; "Blood in the Cut" by K Flay; "Dark Doo Wop" by MS MR; "Run Boy Run" by Woodkid

That’s all for now, folks. I won’t tell you to behave, but try to be good. Don’t let anyone get a hold of your hair or fingernail clippings, and remember we all look at the moon at some point xoxo


End file.
